Mingled Tears: Tales of a Living Wife
by bwayphantomrose
Summary: Leroux-based. Christine realizes what it's really like to be Erik's wife. Slowly, she learns that in order to unlock his heart, she must first unlock hers. Her perspective as his living bride. COMPLETE.
1. Decided

--

I have chosen.

"Erik! I will be your living wife!"

It had been a combination of fear for Raoul's life and the sudden implications of what his words meant. His adamant tone expresses to me what he had planned; his will was inexorable, and I, a weak and insignificant girl, suddenly had the lives of so many in my hands.

"_Everyone will be dead and buried!"_

My fingers curl in sheer terror, my whole entire body begins to shake with suppressed sobs, and Erik stands there, observing me.

"You are sincere." he notes, his flawless voice echoing around my aching head. "You wish to save your young fiancé, do you?"

I nod, seeing there is no way to lie through this. Erik exercised an awesome and terrible hold over me, and my decision to accept his bizarre proposal was more to do with this hold than any pitiful wish I had. How could I compare to him? How could I ever dream that his claims of a "living wife" were little more than an idealized fantasy that centered around myself? I have wondered willingly into his trap, and I felt no remorse.

"You would become my wife out of fear," Erik states quietly. "Not love."

I hang my head miserably, afraid to deny this, and yet more terrified of revealing the truth. What feelings did I have for Erik, other than pity? Surely none at all, I told myself. I would not love this monster. I _did not_ love this monster.

And yet I have consented to become his living wife.

Erik is crying.

I see his tears, for he is not wearing his mask, and I do not turn away in disgust. He is crying for _me_, because he has wasted his love and affections on someone who is cowardly and naive. He should not love me, not after all I have done to him, but he does, and his infatuation is unremitting. What position have I hoisted myself into?

I walk forward unsteadily, not sure of where my destination is, and he drops to his knees and crawls toward me, like a child seeking forgiveness. He clutches at the hem of my dress, and I keep my eyes open, staring at the wounded man who is at my feet.

"Erik," I murmur, but I have no idea of what to say to comfort him, how to soothe him, but my voice does enough. He raises himself to his knees, as if to draw up, and I put my arms around him.

This act surprises me more than him, and I feel him flinch at the contact, and then freeze as he realizes what I have done. He becomes cold and unmoving in my embrace. I tug my arms around him more so that he has no choice but to lean into me; his tears start afresh, and I whisper once again, "Erik.."

He breaks down and wraps his own arms around my waist and presses himself against my stomach, and I can feel his sobs reverberating up my body and into my throat, so suddenly I am sobbing too, both of us crying and clinging to each other like lost children who have been given hope. My tears ran off my face and onto his, so that our connection is greater as I watch him taste those mingled tears.

"I love you, Christine."

I am a frightened child. I do not know how to handle love such as this. I put one of my little hands against his cheek, and he draws back instantly, so I feel empty and cold.

He sits back and watches me closely.

He pushes himself up with surprising speed and agility, and I recoil, my arms going back to my sides. He stares at me full nearly a full minute before he says, "You are Erik's bride. Erik will do whatever she wishes. Does she wish to be let go?"

His words shock me, but his manner shocks me even more. His cold formality has returned, and even as I look back into his glowing eyes, I see no trace of tears…

"Let go?" I repeat, my mind slow and foggy. "I don't understand."

His chuckle is sad and distant as he looks down at the floor. "You love the boy. I wish to keep you here, with me, but I cannot. Erik cannot have a wife who pines for another. Tell me the truth, Christine. Would you like me to release you and him?"

His short sentences and quickening of breath tell me he is frightened of my answer. He is afraid. His shoulders have already drooped, and I ask gently, "Is Raoul alright?"

A bit of his spark returns at that, and he says, "Standing with her husband, and she inquires about her former lover! He is fine, my dear; Erik keeps his word. He keeps his promises. And he would expect you to do the same."

My reminder of Raoul and reality hits him hard. All talk of being released has vanished. We have recessed to the point where he has not yet offered my freedom, nor cried with me, nor put his arms around me. His eyes are cold again, and he looks at me curiously.

I had made my decision, had I not?

What other choice do I have? Erik told me Raoul was safe. I no longer had to fear that the Opera Populaire was about to be incinerated. The only thing that kept me to my words was my honor. My honor and my life.

My life is worth little now. I suppose it is only for Raoul's life that I shall forward now. How else was I to escape Erik? What good could come out of refusing him? He is a broken man, and yet he is threatening and dangerous. I should be screaming now, and running in the opposite direction! Oh, what has become of me? What have I done to deserve this?

Yet, what has Erik done to deserve this? All his sins are reactions to pain and suffering that has been inflicted upon him. Why should he want me to linger, a constant scar to forever pierce him?

Could I ever even _pretend_ to offer my love?

I struggle internally with myself once again. I am confused beyond measure, my head is hurting me, and I am not sure what is drawing me to stay with Erik.

"_Erik! I will be your living wife!"_

Wife. I promised to be his wife.

Erik's wife. What did those words mean? What connotations did they hold? What duties would be forced upon me?

My mind is in turmoil again, and I wish to be in Raoul's arms, taking me away from this place. With Raoul, there are no threats or confusing thoughts. Raoul loves me.

Erik loves me too.

Two different kinds of love, both powerful, both strong, but a choice I will ultimately have to make. I have made my choice! How many times must I remind myself of the words I uttered over a minute ago?

My thoughts are implacable, and they well up inside of me, and I am ashamed of them, ashamed because I am a foolish child who has no idea on what to do. A monster and murderer loves me, and a charming and wonderful viscount loves me. The comparisons were obvious, so why was it so hard to choose?

"You are thinking very hard." Erik snaps, and his acrimony startles me, so I look up. "I want to keep you here, with me! All you have to do is love me, and I will take care of everything else!"

I stand still, his voice interrupting my musings. "I will stay with you." I whisper.

"Of course you will." he says. "You are my bride." He seems to want to step forward, but thinks better of it. "Your dress in your room, my dear. Be a good girl and put it on. Come back in here to marry your Erik."

Numbness is beginning to spread through me. I am going to marry Erik. I have made my choice. This is my decision.

A decision of marriage should not be taken lightly, and yet, I feel as if I have just done that. I bring my hand up to my face and wipe at the corner of my eyes where tears have been bold enough to gather, but not enough to fall. I think of Erik's tears, freely flowing from those eyes, the same eyes that worshipped my every move. I could not give him the love he so desperately craved. I could not give him the passion that he gave to his music. Why me? Poor, unhappy Erik.

"You have promised." Erik reminds me sullenly from across the room. "You promised me, my love. I will love you forever. You, in turn, must marry me."

"I have agreed to marry you." I reply, staring at my hands, which are clasped in front of me. "That does not mean it has to be right away. Can I not stay down here with you for a while more before we exchange marital vows?" It is a foolish thing to say, I know. I am requesting more time with him, more time to delay what I am beginning to feel is inevitable.

I look up, and nearly scream to see that Erik in inches away from me. Luckily, I restrain my noise, realizing that screaming would surely anger him beyond recognition.

His tone is soft and unbearably gentle and he stares passionately into my eyes. "I do not want to be your captor, Christine." he tells me. His eyes scan my face. I think he is seeking reassurance, or forgiveness—or maybe even love.

I sigh. Then I take his hands. He shudders and grips them painfully tight. "No, Erik." I say bravely, my hands turning numb. "Not captor. _Husband._"

--


	2. Husband and Wife

--

My wedding dress is whiter than the purest snow. Each stitch is measured perfectly, each line of lace even and decorated. The bows that adorn each sleeve are silky and smooth.

I want to hate it, but I cannot.

I dress quietly, pulling the silk over my head, lacing myself up. The material feels cool and unfamiliar against my skin. I wonder absentmindedly what my dress would look like if I were to have married Raoul. I could not imagine that it would look finer than this.

I take my time, re-applying my makeup and pretending that this is another game of make believe. How I love those games! The action is always fun, and the outcome always at your own discretion.

Eventually, we all must grow up.

I stare into my mirror for the longest time. I have hidden the slight bruising on my forehead with makeup. I have dabbed my lips with the tiniest trace of lip stick, but my face is so pale that my lips look rosy regardless. The shadows under my eyes are gone, my light curls are brushed.

I go to the door and put my hand on the handle, but I do not turn it. If I were to stay in here, would he eventually come and fetch me? Or would he trust me enough to come back to him, like I promised? I have always returned to him. I always will.

When I feel I can hide in here no longer, I gather my skirts and exit. I walk as slowly as possible, as if I really were walking down an aisle.

When I am at the drawing room, I hesitate. Erik's back is to me; he is facing his piano.

I want to be bold and announce my presence. Yet my courage has not reached those heights yet. Every step I seem to make toward him brings me back until I realize I have not moved at all, still standing back in the doorway where I started.

He senses me.

He turns.

The look in his eyes tells me that this has indeed been a much sought after fantasy. His whole body tenses visibly as his eyes run me down. I can feel emotions pouring off him, but I do not say a word. We both stand there in tangible silence, until he lowers his gaze and turn his back to me again.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I experience a feeling of hurt. How dare he make me dress up like this, only to turn away? I was soon to be his wife, was I not? Hadn't he the right to look at me?

And yet he faces the opposite direction.

"I have composed a beautiful piece for us." he says, almost inaudibly. "It is so beautiful, it will make you cry, Christine, and I do not wish for you to spoil your pretty makeup." He looks up into my face, almost expectantly. "Take me to be your husband, Christine?"

I can only bring myself to nod.

That is enough for him. He brings his hand up to his hideous face and presses it over his eyes for a brief moment. He does not approach me, but only stares into my eyes. Then he holds out his hand.

He holds a simple gold band with a diamond resting in the middle. I take baby steps forward and take it with trembling fingers. His fingers are shaking too, I notice. I slide the finger onto my fourth finger. I expect him to start crying again, but he does not.

"Erik is now your husband." he says wearily. "You are his wife now. He will do whatever pleases you."

The ring fits perfectly. It is not the gold band that he gave me previously, that I lost—or maybe it is, I cannot tell.

I stand silently as he seems to struggle with himself. His eyes are downcast again, and I reach out for him and give him my hands, willing him to take them. His eyes widen and he takes them carefully, unlike his iron grip earlier.

There is still a considerable amount of space between us and I have the strangest longing to move closer and step back at the same time. In the end, I simply hold his hands tighter and pray for strength for both of us. We are both confused and lost, both unsure of ourselves. Any other couple who had these insecurities should certainly not go through something such as _marriage_—but then again, Erik and I are not like other couples.

He suddenly brings my hands up to his mouth and begins to kiss them—they are almost severe and animalistic—but as he continues, they grow calmer and calmer until my hands are simply at his mouth and he is just holding them there.

"I love you so much." he cries, his voice slightly muffled by my own hands. "So much, Christine, that you cannot dream of it."

He looks up and for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to feel those lips upon my own.

It does not last long.

Here I am, his bride, and I am afraid to be kissed, really kissed! That is not fair to him. He deserves more than my hands, but I cannot bring myself to offer such a thing as intimate as my lips. Are my hands all I have to give?

I am seized with a sudden inspiration, and I take a step forward, putting out my forehead. He is confused, but I can see what he is thinking. He trembles.

I try to grant him permission with my eyes, and he hesitates for the briefest of seconds before he gently places his lips upon my forehead.

His lips are cold but soft, and he is so close, leaning into me, that I can almost lean against him, but I do not. He brings his lips back, but stays close. His hands have dropped mine, so I tentatively bring them up and put them on his chest. His hands drop to my waist and brush ever so softly over my dress.

He leaps back as if he's been burned, and I am once again left with that empty feeling, as if something very great was just snatched away from me. The contact that his hands made seems to have frightened him, and he turn away, guiltily.

"You are a good girl." he murmurs. "And you are so soft."

I stand so close to Erik, realizing I still do not know where Raoul is. I am ashamed with myself, for I have forgotten Raoul. I want to ask, but I know that would be very bad.

"I will not play the piece I have written for you." Erik tells me. "So I will play the Mozart piece you like. Sit on the couch now, darling, but take care not to wrinkle your dress."

I smooth out the silk material and sit on the edge of the couch. He looks at me wonderingly for quite a few minutes, until I blush and look down. I wonder if he can see how badly my hands are shaking.

All his hesitancy, all his fear vanishes as he turns to his beloved keyboard.

He sits at his piano and plays for me, the lightest piece he could have thought of, completely in the major key. The music is so sweet, and this moment so strange, that the music transports me to a different place, a place where this is not reality or dreams, but just a place. Just a place where we have become husband and wife under strange circumstances, and where music is more than feeling. Music is emotion, his and mine, together.

I almost wish he would have played something mournful, because this music is so happy, that I want to cry anyway. Why is he trying so hard to make me happy? I thought this was about what _he_ wanted, for he must know that this was not something I was begging to do. But I accepted him. What message, what false impression did that give him?

I am frightened of what the next moment might bring, so I pray very hard that this song will last forever and ever, and I will never have to move from my precarious position on his couch.

I should have known that God had stopped answering my prayers a long time ago.

When he is done with his piece, he faces me. "This has been a very long day," he says. "For both of us. You may go to your room to sleep now, for it is very late."

I notice he is still not looking at me, but at a certain point just over my shoulder. I tell myself I will not move until my husband looks into my eyes, and he seems to read my mind as his gaze finally slides over mine. He runs his eyes over my form once again, and then back to my face. He closes his eyes and then turns to his music. I understand what that means.

I am being dismissed. I rise carefully and go to the door. We do not say good night. We do not kiss. We do not sing. My wedding is over.

I go to my room and cry.

--


	3. Tears

--

Life with Erik was turning out to be more peculiar than I could have possibly imagined. He has a schedule for everything, but then never follows it. He spends half his time doting on me, and then half ignoring me. I cannot figure him out.

He no longer locks me in my room, but lets me roam about his house. Occasionally, he locks his own bedroom door and tells me that some secrets are left so no one will discover hem. I protested this at first, mainly because I didn't want him keeping secrets.

"I am your wife, am I not?" I had argued. "You are my husband. You cannot forbid me entrance to your room."

"Erik_ is_ your husband, and you will obey him." he replied tonelessly.

And that was the end of that.

We sing most of the time. It is not so much as lessons, but mini-concerts, for Erik no longer tells me how to sing, but just lets me choose any song I want. It is a freedom that he is giving to me, and I take it eagerly.

I do not mention Raoul again. I do not know where he is, I do not know what Erik has done to him and the other man, but Erik assures me time and time again that they are safe and unharmed, though far from here. I do not know how to decipher his message, so I simply give him blind trust, and pray that they are both safe.

Every night before I go to bed, I say "Good night, Erik.", and he says "Good night, Christine.", and that is it. He has not kissed me again, or given me any physical contact at all. It is slightly unnerving for me, and sometimes I reach out my little fingers, wanting to touch some part of him, but I never do.

I am still frightened of him.

One evening, Erik is playing his piano in the other room, and I am in the main room, reading one of his books. I sigh, and stretch, deciding to go to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

On the counter is the Époque, the newspaper he brings in every other day. I have never paid much attention to it, but today it is opened to a particular page, and as I search around for a cup and saucer, I read it.

'Erik is dead.'

I stare at the paper again. It is in the form of an advertisement, right near the bottom. Surely it cannot mean my Erik? What were the coincidences of it being in his house with his own death notice?

Was I brave enough to go ask him about it? It would be an excuse to speak with him, to hear his lovely voice in this tomb. He has been in the drawing room for so long.

I snatch it up hastily, forgetting my tea, and take it to the drawing room. The door is closed and he is composing. I know he will be very angry if I bother him now, but I do not think of that. I just want to know what this means.

I push on the door, but it is locked. I start to hammer away at it, not knowing why I am suddenly so confused. What does this mean? Why does Erik go out just to leave these messages? Did he write this? He must have.

The door flies open, and Erik is in a towering temper. His golden eyes glitter dangerously at me.

"What is it you need?" he hisses at me. "What is so important that you must interrupt Erik while he is composing?"

I hold out the paper.

He sees it and laughs. "Oh, my darling, you do not have to worry about Erik's tricks. Erik does many things to make sure he stays safe here, and you have stumbled across one. It is for his benefit, the one who was with your young man _that night_. It will be easier for him, to think I am gone. You need not worry."

"You go up into the outside world!" I say. "You deliver ads, you get the paper. I want to go out too!"

Erik laughs again as he shakes his head. "I would not let you out that easily, my sweet. You would run away from me."

"I would _not_." I say angrily, not sure why my temper has risen up so dramatically. "Have I not proved to you that I keep my word?"

He views me. "You keep your word, because you are a good girl, even though you do not love me. But you will still not go out."

He shuts the door in my face.

My bottom lip begins to tremble, and my eyes fill with tears. He is being so cruel! I just wanted to talk to him after him being locked away for hours, and he brushes me aside as if I mean nothing to him.

I thought he was supposed to love me!

I rush to my room so I can cry in peace. I throw myself on my bed like the dramatic diva I am and sob like a baby. Why is everything so difficult? I am just being emotional, I know, but I feel tired and sick. I have been married for three weeks, but I am not permitted to leave my house, I am not permitted to go into my husband's room, and I am not permitted to interrupt him when he's busy!

Is Raoul out there searching for me? I hope he is, but he will never reach me. I am forever Erik's, in his hold until death do us part.

I lay there, sniffling, and I wonder what it would be like if I loved Erik. Would we be happy? If I made the effort, would I feel just as loved as much as I loved him? Maybe he would kiss me then, those cool lips on my own.

I should not be thinking such thoughts!

But he is my husband, is he not?

I cry and cry and cry, until it has been several minutes. I hear my door open and I press my face into my pillow.

"You are upset." Erik says worriedly. "I can hear you crying. Why are you crying, Christine? It hurts me so much to hear you cry."

I do not answer him because I have no idea why I'm crying. He comes and perches himself on the edge of my bed, several inches from my leg. One gloved hand comes out and reaches for my face. I peek over my pillow, and when he sees my eyes, he draws back.

I feel disappointment, again. Why am I so disappointed? Why won't my husband touch me?

I bring myself up to my knees so I am facing him. I am much closer than he is expecting. He automatically leans back.

Our faces are level in this position, and I have a terrible, terrible urge to kiss him, but that would hurt him so much. I am so afraid to offer my love. Strange, but I think that's why I cannot accept his.

"I will not cry if it hurts you, Erik." I tell him.

He smiles a little. "You are thinking of Erik, not wanting to hurt him. You have hurt him many times, Christine."

"I know." I say, feeling like a child being reprimanded for wrong acts—which, essentially, I am. "And I'm sorry."

I can feel his surprise like a windstorm. "You are apologizing to _me_? After all I have done to you, you apologize to _me_?"

"Can you take me up to the world, please?" I beg. "I miss fresh air and people. I want to see them. I want you to come with me."

I try to put tenderness in my words, and hope that by inviting him, his heart will soften, but he remains hard and unmoving. "You will leave me." he protests.

"I promise I won't, Erik." I plead, tears gathering in my eyes again. "I will stay by your side."

"_No!_" he says with such force, that I jump. "I cannot lose you, not now. Not ever. You are my wife, and you will do what I say you will do. You will stay here, where you are safe. You will not leave me."

"You're cruel!" I throw back at him, and I regret my words. How could I say that to him? Now he will never let me go. I have hurt him, I know.

He stands, his eyes blank and furious. "Of course I am. You know that better than anybody, _sweetheart_. Now you will stay in your room for the rest of the evening as well. Good night, Christine."

He waits for my customary, 'Good night, Erik.', but it will not come. I press my hands against my mouth as I cry _again_.

My silence bothers him. He grows uncomfortable, and turns angry. He slams the door.

I am beginning to notice that when I hurt him, he becomes angry. When he does not know how to display his emotions, he reacts in the only way he can. I must watch my tongue. My word can affect him more than anything else that could set him off. If only he didn't hold me in such a way that I was above everything else!

I dress for bed and huddle under the covers, feeling lost and desperately alone. I do not know how much longer I can go through with this. I do not know which way to turn.

I am sick of thinking. I roll over to go to sleep.

As I close my eyes, I realize that this is our first fight as husband and wife.

But I know it will not be the last.

--


	4. Chance of Escape

--

Raoul comes for me on my one-month wedding anniversary.

Erik was out. He didn't lock me in my room, but told me he trusted me enough not to leave. I couldn't believe it. I promised.

"Goodbye Erik." I had called. He stopped at the door and gave me a lingering look. I put on my bravest face and smiled at him.

"Goodbye, my angel." he said back sweetly. "Erik loves you and will be back soon."

I heard the lock click behind him.

I never like it when he leaves. His house becomes dark and cold without him in it. All the music we made seems to disappear, so that everything is deathly quiet. I hate it.

Today, I wandered around singing to myself. I had been singing a lot lately, several hours every day, so Erik had told me to give my voice a rest. My voice wasn't tired at all, and I just felt so happy singing, as if it were my only solace down here.

I hear a noise outside by the lake and assume that Erik is home. I silence myself quickly so he will not be angry. But the noise continues and no one enters. I begin to panic. No one could have found their way down here! And Erik would certainly not make that much noise.

I long for Erik. He would come out, right now, and take care of it, tell me not to worry.

Erik is afraid of nothing. I am afraid of everything.

The noise continues, like banging or chipping, and I slink back against the wall in absolute terror. Such a loud noise! Who has made their way down to Erik's pit of doom? Don't they know that certain death awaits them if they travel much farther?

The siren does not go off. I hear no screams.

"No one could possibly get down here." I tell myself, my voice making a soothing sound against the Gothic walls. "And if they do, they will be dead within seconds."

I am appalled at my apparent joy of fatality.

I creep silently to the door. I realize that is unlocked. Erik did not lock me in.

No. I heard the lock click. He locked me in. I test the doorknob. It opens.

I am stunned. The door is locked only from the outside, letting no one but Erik get in, but he has not imprisoned me. I can open the door with apparent ease, no obstacles set up for me. I pull the door open wider.

_I could escape…_

And go where? Raoul could be anywhere, probably the North Pole. I would have no one to take care of me. No one who loved me above ground.

Erik was all I had.

I suddenly missed him very much. Erik loved me. I had come to depend on him, leaning on him through our silent living arrangements. He was always there, and I never once went to him, asking for his presence. Why had I not? I feel so tired sometimes, as if I could sink into my silk-sheeted bed and sleep forever.

I listen intently, but the noises are gone. It was probably a rat of some sort, or a person whose body was now cold and unmoving. I close the door quietly, my heart slowing.

Until the door rattles.

I let out a petrified scream, my heart pounding so loud that I can hardly hear myself. I remember the door in unlocked and I reach forward to lock it, but the door bangs open, and standing there is Raoul.

"Christine!" he cries. "You are alive!"

I numbly reach my hand out, and in a daze, he pulls me out of the house, yelling, "Quickly now! The beast could be back any moment!"

The door was locked! No! I unlocked it! Why, oh why, did I open the door?

My mind blurry, I allow him to take me protectively in his arms, while a voice in my head is crying, "_Erik! Erik! Erik!"_

Raoul is here! He has come to save me!

I notice Raoul is very dirty, with several days growth of a beard on his face, and rips and tears in his clothing. My stomach is turning and my head is reeling; I totter unsteadily, and I feel myself slipping away into a faint.

"No, Christine, you must stay with me! I will get you out of here, I promise, my love!"

I pull myself upright. We are going down dark passages now, on the side of the lake. The dirt in all over, I notice, as if it's been dug at.

"Raoul!" I gasp. "You have come for me!"

He presses his lips into my hair, and I realize what it's like to be physically touched. I have gone without touch for so long, and I feel so comforted, safe in someone's arms. I was free! Free from Erik!

Erik?

"Erik." I say. "I cannot leave Erik! He will find me!"

"Hush!" Raoul commands. "We must escape quickly!"

A terrible altercation is raging in my head. I promised Erik I would not leave! I could not break my promise again! I was his wife! _What was I doing?_

He had trusted me. What would he do when he came home, only to find that I was gone? He would be quite insane, I was sure of it! He would be crazed with love and grief! Our trust had been building up in a tension-filled world for the past month, and now I would shatter everything that had come between us.

My decision has already been made. Raoul or Erik?

I had chosen Erik.

My mind clears away and I pound my little fists on Raoul's torn jacket. "You must let me go! I cannot leave my husband! I promised him!"

"Oh, my Christine." Raoul moans. "What has he done to you? You made me promise to take you away, even if you protested!"

_Be quite, you silly girl!_ my mind scolds. _Raoul will protect you, and you will be free!_

I cry. Did I want to be free?

I couldn't do this. I couldn't break a man's heart like this.

"Take me back!" I scream. "Take me back! Erik? Erik!"

Erik will hear me, I know. Erik will come save me! Erik always hears me. He told me so!

But Raoul is still running, and I am still nestled in his side, and Erik is nowhere in sight.

"I waited for days by the shore!" Raoul says, pulling me along. "Days and days, until I saw him leave! Do not ruin the escape now!"

I do not want to escape. Where is Erik? He promised to come whenever I called. Raoul was taking me away! Erik should have been here like lightning, to keep me with him!

"If he goes home, he'll think I left!" I sob. "He won't trust me ever again!"

Raoul pats my hair awkwardly while flying down the tunnel. He is going too fast, and my feet are dragging, pulling my foot back and back.

I hear it snap.

Such a wonderful pain! Pain jerks me back to reality, and also gives me a strength I knew not that I had; my entire body tenses up, and I believe I am going into shock. My dead weight knocks into Raoul, who trips—

And then we are both flying downward towards the ground, and my eyes roll back and everything goes dark. Only for a moment.

Dark… Why is it always so dark…?

_Angels will protect you always and forever in the dark…_

My head feels funny. I feel hands roaming over my body, on my stomach and down my leg, to my ankle, pressing on the bone; I think it hurts, but I am not aware of the pain, and everything is so strange, so fluorescent.

"Erik?" I ask, and the hands travel up me again. I can picture him above me, his white mask contrasting with his dark overcoat, his hands finally reaching out to claim me…

"Christine, can you hear me? Christine, we must keep moving!"

_Raoul_…

I keep my eyes closed, disappointed that I did not faint, or fall unconscious. I keep my eyes shut tight anyway, trying to block everything out. My ankle hurts!

"Christine, we must…we must…"

Raoul's voice falters and dies. My eyes remain closed.

And then I am falling for real…Spinning through cold air, my smart mind shutting down before I can hit the rough surface.

--


	5. Understanding

--

When my mind awakens, I do not immediately open my eyes. I am lying on the ground, but a cold hand is under my back, keeping me suspended a little above the hard surface. I try to draw my legs up to my chest, but the pain in my ankle suddenly seems magnified. I moan.

"Nothing to worry about." comes a soft voice. "But you should stay still for a moment."

"Erik?" I whisper, my senses gleaming at the sound of that voice.

"Who else?" he replies, his tone a little cold. "Silence. I said to be _still."_

I lay unmoving, my breathing coming harsher. Without thinking, I ask, "Where's Raoul?"

I do not think of the consequences of my words. Erik's hand lifts me up into a sitting position, and I am so bewildered that I do not even comprehend that this is the first time that he has touched me since our 'wedding'. My head swirls dangerously, but Erik is there, supporting me.

"What ever do you mean, my dear?" he asks, his tone polished. "I have told you time and time again that your ex-fiancé is far away. He is unhurt. You have no business to be fretting about him."

"He was here." I recount. "He came while you were gone and we were running and I begged him to take me back and then my ankle broke while he pulled me, and then everything—"

"_Silence_!" he hisses. "I told you to _be still_!"

I stay frigid as ice as his hand caresses my bodice, from my waist to my stomach, but no further in either direction. Half of me wants to smack him away, and the other half wants to invite him further. Being typical in my decision-making strategies with him, I do neither.

"Raoul is far away." he says, almost hypnotically. "You were simply wandering around in the dark. You must have been dreaming. "His voice takes on a soothing manner. "My poor angel, falling and losing her way in Erik's labyrinth!"

I am desperately trying to take in his emotions, but his hand has gone to my stomach again, and I am distracted.

"Come home, darling." he says, and in one, fluid motion, I am in his arms. One hand is under my arm and around my back, and the other in under my legs, in the crook of my knee.

I casually lean my head against him. He does not pull me roughly, as Raoul did, but instead his hands are increasingly gentle.

It's times like these why I wonder why I don't love Erik.

It seems as though we walk for hours, although it couldn't be more than a few minutes. I can hear his breathing remain very steady as he paces himself up the slight hill. I am little more than a ragdoll to him, I realize. The thought frightens and excites me.

When we get to the door, he pushes it open carefully and heads straight for my room. He lays me down on my bed.

"Thank you." I mumble incoherently, as I roll over to get comfortable. But my movement creates a jagged pain in my ankle, and I bite my pillow so Erik won't become alarmed.

He notices anyway, of course. "Wait here." he tells me, as if I am going anywhere, and disappears for a moment. When he returns, he is carrying wraps and tonic in a flask.

He takes my ankle gingerly and wraps his hand around it. His hands are like ice, and it calms the burning sensation. His fingers are ridiculously quick and my ankle is bandaged before I have time to sit up. He hands me the flask. "Drink this." he orders.

I stare at him warily. "What is it?"

"You have both twisted and broken your ankle." he replies quietly. "You will be in excruciating pain by tomorrow. This will help soothe it."

I stare at his mask. I wish he would take it off. It is so hard to read him when he hides his face.

I swallow it whole.

My vision grows blurry as I fall back against my pillow. His golden eyes watch me sadly.

"Sleep, my angel." he coaxes. "Erik does not wish for you to be in any pain." He leans over, and I think he is going to kiss me, but then he is gone.

I toss and turn. In the end, I do not think I have slept at all, but caught between being awake and unconscious. By the time I fall asleep, my ankle is throbbing. My dreams are of running people, Raoul watching me, saying, "Wait for me, Christine," and Erik in the shadows, reaching out to touch me, to kiss my lips—

Hands roughly seize my shoulders.

"Why?" I hear. "Why, why, _why_?"

My senses gathering, I open my eyes to find Erik's mask-less face mere inches from my own. My mouth widens in a silent scream, unsure if it is because of his face, or his sudden appearance.

His eyes are flaming with fury and he is shaking—oh, he is shaking me—and I attempt to pull away.

"_Why would you leave Erik when he told you not to_?" he demands, his voice low and deadly. "Your young man came and you ran off with him! Damn you, you foolish child! You think nothing of your actions, nothing of what the next day will bring! You think of only what you are doing now. How could you? Erik trusted you, and now he cannot ever trust you again. Erik has trusted you one too many times, Christine."

"I didn't want to go!" I cry. "Raoul was dragging me, that's why my foot broke—"

"You're lying!" he yells, suddenly leaning over me, pressing me back onto the mattress in horror. "Why would you leave me for him? Why would you promise me, Christine? You lie, you lie—"

"Let me go." I whimper, and his hands fall from my neck to around my curls, down my sides, as he slides down to kneel at the side of my bed.

"Erik will never let you go." he moans, and I realize he's crying now, hurt and crying. He pulls on my hands and buries his face in them, and I cannot pull away. "Erik cannot let you go because he's in love with you—why he is so terrible if he loves you so? I don't know, Christine, I don't know. I'm so afraid of you, Christine, so very afraid."

For all of my practice with crying for the past month, I do not shed a tear. I stare at him, almost wonderingly, until he glances up at me. His breathing is heavy. His rage is over. He looks around and replaces the mask on his face.

"Do I frighten you?" he asks softly. I put my tongue between my teeth and observe him.

"Take off your mask." I tell him. He blinks.

"That will frighten you more." he protests, and I sigh.

"I've seen your face many a times, Erik, you know that. It does not cause me anymore fear." I hold out my hand gently, an unspoken request for the fabric. He is tempted, but he does not trust me. "Please, Erik." I whisper. "I'm trying to understand you. I cannot understand you when I cannot see your face. It is very simple."

Erik frowns. "You need not to understand me, Christine."

I pout and cross my arms like a child. "I am your wife! I have every right to understand you! I'm trying, here! Now, take off your mask, or I shall do it!"

Erik looks faintly alarmed at my outburst, and he hands over his mask. I can still see the tears on his face. He sits back patiently on his heels, showing no signs that a few minutes previously he had been in a furious frenzy.

He is looking at me so curiously, and as I look into those eyes, I see—innocence. _Innocence_.

Erik is just as much of a child as I am. We need to learn from each other. He will never be bold enough to take that first step, so I must leap ahead and drag him with me if I must.

His gaze is unnerving, however. He continues to look at me with the same, undisguised expression.

"Why do you look at me like that?" I ask uncomfortably.

"Understand." he murmurs. "You wish to understand me?"

"Yes. But it's difficult with the mask on."

He looks down at the floor. "No one has ever cared enough to try to understand Erik before." he tells the carpet. "No one has ever asked."

"Well, I have." I say. "This must be done properly. I will understand you, and you will understand me."

Erik is looking terrified now. I think he is so used to having his face covered that he doesn't try to hide his expressions at all.

"Very well." he says, inclining his head. "I will keep my mask off so you can understand me."

"At dinner tonight." I announce. "I will eat and you will talk. Tell me things. Things about you. Things you feel. Maybe I'll give you a scenario and you will tell me how you would react."

He's crying again.

"What did I say?" I ask anxiously. I want to pull my hair out at his impossible mood swings. "If it bothers you so, we will not do it!"

"Christine cares." he cries. "Christine is trying to understand her husband. Am I a fool to think that she cares?"

He _is_ like a child. I have no right to sit and cry in my room when there is a man out there who is desperately seeking my company. I need to help him, make him understand. Most importantly, I need to understand _him_.

He clutches at my dress. "I do not understand myself. How could I expect you to understand me?"

He is thinking about it, and I am encouraged. "Let's try. We'll talk tonight at dinner."

Erik pulls a pocket watch from nowhere. "My dear, I do believe it is about dinner time."

"Oh!" I say in shock. It appears I have been sleeping longer than I thought. "Let me dress properly and I will come right out."

He hesitates and stands up. His eyes look hopeful. It looks like he's reaching for my hands.

I think he wants to kiss me.

I should lean out to him, but I want to see if he is brave enough to take them on his own. I do not even consider the thought that I am not brave enough to offer it to him. He is closer. I wait. Is he brave enough?

He is not. He leaves.

I change for dinner, thinking.

--


	6. Food for Thought

--

I sit in my chair, glaring at Erik, who has his mask on. I tell him I will not eat a bite until he takes it off. He stares back at me. Two can play at this game.

Unfortunately, after a minute I realize this is indeed a losing battle, so I pick up my fork.

"Your parents?" I question.

"Nothing to tell."

I go back to glaring at him. "You've said that to every question I've asked of you. If you don't have something to tell, then _find_ something to tell!" I plunge my fork into my bread with a little more energy than I meant to. I chew angrily, trying to get him to show some emotion.

Sadness. Anger. _Anything_.

He sits across from me, stiff as a statue, watching my every move from under his mask.

"Are your parents dead?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

I am not."

I have a horrible thought: I want to ask if he killed them. I fidget, horrified by my own thought, and attempt to move to another question.

He beats me to it. "How is your ankle?" he asks.

"Painful." I reply disappointedly. I had to literally drag myself to the table, hanging onto all the furniture that I passed. It is swelling and bruising under the tender wrappings. "I think my dancing days are over."

Erik actually chuckles, and I am so surprised that I look up in shock. "Your foot will heal as all other's do. I highly doubt you will be dancing down her otherwise. You are my prima donna, and you do not dance. You sing."

I feel awkward. "Yes." I reply weakly. "I sing for you."

I continue eating, and he continues to stare at me. We both look up at the same time and our eyes meet. I look away, embarrassed for some reason. I hate how tense he is! I wish he would come sit in the chair next to me, rather than the one across from me. I want to ask why he has a table set for four when he doesn't ever expect any company. I muse silently for a moment.

"Are you happy here?" he asks.

"Yes." I lie immediately.

His golden eyes close briefly, as if he is in pain; then he opens them and says, "No, you're not."

Letting Erik know that I was not happy would lead to nothing good, I was sure of that. I thought of a way to answer him honestly while be wary of his feelings.

"I could be happy if I tried." I struggle, putting both of my hands on the wooden table. My head is reeling again, determining how to speak.

"But… you do not… try?"

I think carefully. I had tried best to compose my speech in my room while getting ready for dinner. "I don't _know_ how to be happy like this. How can I be happy with you when you are distant with me? When I try to care for you, you—you brush me away. I'm close to giving up."

His voice is hollow. "I want you to be happy."

"I want you to be happy too."

He leans forward. "Love me, Christine! Love me and I will be happy!"

"Then you must _allow_ me to love you, Erik."

My words hang in the air, and I want to reach up and snatch them back. I do not understand why I said that. I do not love Erik. I do not want to love Erik. I pity him, and I feel compassion for him, but I cannot love a man who has threatened me and held me captive.

"Allow you?"

He is staring inquisitively at me, and I feel a rush of courage I have never experienced before. "Like this." I say softly, and I stand up and go to his side. I kneel down beside his chair, so his face is slightly higher than mine. I realize what I am going to ask him to do, and I feel a rush of disgust and excitement.

So close to him, I once again feel that desire to be closer and farther away at the same time. I am so afraid to be touched by his dead hands, but at the same time, I wonder what they would be liked if I let him try…

"Kiss me, Erik." I say.

He swallows. His voice is strong. "No."

"Why, _no_?"

His eyes are terrified. He seems to not be able to look me in the face. I feel—I do not even know how I feel.

I feel _rejected_.

What I have done to him, he has now done to me. I feel worthless and pushed away. Is this how Erik feels?

"Why no, Erik?"

Silence.

"Erik?"

He glances down at me, his chest rising and falling. He leans down and swiftly places a quick kiss on the top of my curls, and then rises, panting as if he's run a thousand miles.

I limp back to my seat.

Picking at my food once again, my heart is thudding. I feel as though I've crossed some dangerous bridge I ought not to have crossed. Why am I so desperately seeking attention from a man whom I care nothing for? Attempting to steer back to conversation, I say, "Could we go on a carriage ride tomorrow? We used to go for walks and such."

"Of course." he answers. His voice is much lighter.

I don't believe my ears.

"Don't look at me like that, angel! Erik will take his wife up on the streets like other men. He will do it to make her happy."

"But before, you said—"

"Tomorrow will be warm out. I suggest you wear something light."

I feel a smile creeping onto my face, and I let it shine through, beaming at him. Who was I to point out that he had told me he would never let me back on the streets of Paris again? He was being so good to me!

I rise up, excited. For someone who has not breathed fresh air in over a month, the promise of going outside can be a wonderful change!

I go back to his side, staring deep into his eyes. "Thank you, Erik."

I sense a slight smile beneath his mask. "You're welcome, my wife."

I reach my fingers out to touch him, and I can feel his lips on my hair again. I want to give him his first kiss, but only if he promises not to recoil or say something degrading.

He watches me. As my fingers brush the corner of his mask, he turns away and sighs.

I echo him, in disappointment.

He stands, looking down at me. "Why don't you head off to bed, my dear?" he suggests, leading me up with his hands an inch away from my skin. "We have dined quite late tonight. And I want your ankle to heal."

I frown at him. He is trying to get rid of me, I am sure. "I have been sleeping all day, if you remember."

"True." he agrees. "I will bring you in a book to read if you are bored."

'Perhaps," I start. "Perhaps you could take me into the drawing room and… and play something for me first?"

"An excellent idea, darling." he says briskly. "Let me help you in."

He puts his arm around my waist and guides me into the drawing room. I am stunned by his boldness. I cannot figure this man out!

He puts me on the chair next to the piano and plays me a song I do not recognize. He probably wrote it for me. He also probably designed it to induce sleepiness. Despite my ramblings of how I have slept all day, I find the music is making my eyelids grow heavy. I lean back and close my eyes.

"Goodnight, Erik." I mumble, and I feel him lift me up into his arms and carry me into my room.

"Goodnight, Christine." he whispers.

"Erik?" I call blearily as he walks out the door. I sense that he pauses.

"I want to understand you because I care about you."

I cannot see his shadow, but I know that my words touch him deeply. He stands there for a long drawn-out moment, and then leaves and closes the door tightly. I wonder absentmindedly if he is crying. It is the closest thing to "I love you" that I've ever said to him.

Too bad I don't have the courage to say anything more.

--


	7. A Midnight Request

--

I hear my door open in the middle of the night. I roll and nestle myself into my pillows, wondering if I heard correctly.

I have. Erik's near-silent footsteps pad softly up to my bed. He carries no candle, and all I can see is his distinct shadow from the corner of my eye.

"Christine?" he whispers, and I stay silent, wondering what he is doing in my room during the dead of night. I hear him go next to my bedside table and sit down in my little chair. I feign sleep, curious to see what he will do.

He does nothing.

Erik is a gentleman, and I know he would not be sneaking into my room to be improper. I feel ashamed of myself, for allowing such thoughts to cross my mind. He simply sits very still in the chair and I think he might just want to watch me sleep. Deciding to make my presence known, I roll onto my back and call out lazily, "Erik?"

"Erik is here, love." he says.

"Why are you in my room?" I ask innocently.

"Listening to you breathe." he answers calmly. "You are so content when you sleep."

I perch myself on my elbows to see his glowing eyes in the dark. Although I can see little more than his shape, I know perfectly well that Erik has eyes like a cat and I am in my nightgown,

Ah, but he is my husband, is he not?

I ponder his response for a moment. Listening to me breathe? He likes to hear me being content. In a strange way, I think he has just said the most beautiful thing he could ever say to me. I was a fool to have bothered him.

"I'm sorry I woke up, then." I say, and I lean back to my pillow.

"Christine…" he begins. I wait. "Christine," he repeats, and I detect a new flavor of nervousness to his tone, something I do not think I have ever heard before. I keep my eyes in his direction, my vision adjusting enough for me to see that he is still dressed in his dinner clothes and his mask.

"You have asked me," he murmurs quietly, and I have never heard such a note of despair. "To take you outside… Christine, I will give you… your wish… if…if… would you grant me… one of mine?"

For some reason, I tug my blankets tighter around me. "What?" I whisper nervously. There cannot be an ulterior motive for him to be alone in the dark with me, can there?

"A… a _kiss_, Christine, oh, Christine, I'm sorry!" he moans, dropping his head into his hands. "I'm so sorry, Erik must be mad to even dare… he dares to ask what he does not deserve—why? Why does he dare? Oh Christine, on my forehead for less than half a second? Please, and I will do anything you ever ask of me… I will not get greedy! I will ask for nothing else!"

Erik has ambled into my room in the middle of the night to ask for a kiss? I want to refuse him, but if he is brave enough to ask, my mind tells me I should be brave enough to acquiesce. I feel like a lost, little girl, thrust into a position that is entirely unexpected as take in the broken man before me. "Come here, Erik."

"_No_."

I am impatient. Twice I have offered for us to share a kiss, and twice he has refused me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, tenderly test my weight in my sore ankle, and walk towards him, my arms held out like a sleepwalker's. My legs are shaking with fear.

I drop to my knees before him and my fingers go up to his mask. He is looking everywhere but me.

"I should never ask!" he cries suddenly, grabbing my hands so I cannot unlace it. "I am so sorry, I should never ask for anything, for I am a bad man who deserves nothing from you—"

"Hush, Erik." I scold. I discard his mask and toss it on the floor. "If you are so dramatic, you will receive nothing. A husband has ever right to ask his wife for a kiss, has he not? Now, are you able to look at me?"

He is unable.

This could be a very tender moment if I tried. But Erik and I are both too naive, too scared of each other to face anything like that. Completely unsure of why I am doing this, I push up on my knees, ignoring the sting in my ankle, and give Erik his very first kiss on his pitiful face.

It is high on his cheek, right under his eyes, where tears can fall. My hands go to his neck.

I wait for the sobs. Sure enough, tears blossom and fall onto my hands as he begins to cry.

I keep my lips against his cool skin which is surprisingly smooth. His flesh looks torn and used, but it feels like marble. I am intrigued and skim my lips down his face. How strange!

"Christine!" he whispers, and his arms come out and encircle my waist, pulling me up into his lap. His breathing is fast and irregular, and his hands are shaking. Our faces are nearly touching and my arms are still around my neck as his arms are around my stomach, as if we are real lovers. I draw back a little, and he keeps his eyes closed.

We are so close. So close to… what?

I lean my head carefully against his chest. Why is he so cold? I notice he is warmer near his heart, although his hand on my back is like ice. Always looking so strong and powerful to me, under my grasp he feels more human, more breakable than I could possibly imagine. I lay my hand directly over his heart, and I know that I alone have the power to heal or break it.

I am inches away from his lips, but I would never kiss a man like that whom I did not love…

While I know I do not love Erik, that has not stopped me from beginning to care for him. I do not wish to hurt him intentionally. If he asks for a kiss, I see no reason why I cannot oblige simply to appease him. I did marry him, after all. That had been my decision, and my mistake for allowing him to think that I would willingly wed him. He knew I did it for Raoul... right? Didn't I?

I try to read my emotions. What exactly, am I feeling towards this monster? Why do I feel so… _conflicted_? I burrow my face in his neck and feel his hands spring away from me.

"My wish… granted." he breathes heavily, and I realize he is vainly trying to push me off his lap. "Go back to sleep."

I do not like being cast aside like that. My arms slide from his shoulders and I hobble back to bed, as he stays sitting in the chair, gripping the armrests. I feel—happier, I suppose—from physical contact from somebody. I had nearly forgotten how it felt to be hugged. My skin is tingly.

Erik stands up. He collects his mask from the floor.

"Don't leave me." I protest.

He hesitates.

"Sing to me?" I request hopefully. "You haven't sung to me in so long." even as I think of it, I am suddenly so desperate to hear it again. I am terrified that he will refuse. His voice was once my only bliss in a troubled world that I lived in, and now I should be in need of it more than ever before.

Woe to me! I am disgusted with myself! Where is Raoul, come to save me? My fiancé is out somewhere, trying to save me, while I am kissing another man! With a dreadful jolt in my stomach, I realize I do not know where Raoul is… Erik would have done anything to him when he caught me running away with him. Raoul could be dead. Erik could be all that I have left.

I push these excruciating thoughts from my head. If only he would begin to sing, I could forget about everything so easily…

He sits back down and takes a shaky breath. He brings his hands out in front of him, caressing the air, and I wonder if he is imagining me there, kissing him less than a minute ago.

He begins to sing very, very quietly, each word perfectly articulated, each breath smooth and controlled. His voice is undeniably sweet and intoxicating, refreshing my soul with a golden tide. I let my eyelids flutter close, so I am allowing nothing to distract me from the splendors of his voice.

He reaches out and takes my hand, which is lying empty on the pillow beside me. He never misses a beat. I savor the feeling of my hand encased in a strong, if not warm grip.

I pretend to already be fast asleep when I hear him start to cry.

--


	8. Productivity

--

The next day, I dress in a periwinkle blue gown with gossamer material flowing lightly over the top. I tie a flowered ribbon around my waist for a touch of springtime to my outfit. I apply very light make up and let my hair fall free.

Erik was waiting for me at the front door. His coat was dark brown and I must confess that it startled me. I had never seen him in anything other than black before. It made his mask seem—less noticeable, I suppose.

He looks at me and then looks down. "You look beautiful." he says. I think of the night before.

"Thank you."

I go to stand next to him and wait. He looks confused. I stare pointedly at him. "Well, aren't you going to offer me your arm?" I ask impatiently.

He looks scandalized.

I huff. "Erik, your wife wants to walk with you. Give her your arm."

He takes a deep breath and I am slightly offended. Is it really such a trial for him? Am I that _unapproachable_?

He holds his arm out silently.

He leads me out the door, both of us walking very, very slowly because of my ankle. I'm quite sure Erik's potion did special wonders, because I know that in my dancer's experience, most people cannot walk for a week after they damage their ankle, sometimes longer. But here, only a few days later, I was able to limp along quite easily, holding onto my husband's arm.

We head up, around the lake and up the concrete steps for many minutes in silence. We pass through the Rue Scribe and into a deserted street of Paris.

I inhale. Beautiful, fresh air! I see other people walking around, other human beings who look carefree and happy. Flowers! I see flowers coming up, scattered all over the rich soil. The myriad of people and plants looked so absolutely normal, so normal, so normal. The first thing I do is drag Erik to the corner and gather a handful of tulips.

Erik pulls me up awkwardly. "The carriage, darling." he mutters, guiding me to the other side of the street.

"It smells like spring!" I exclaim to him excitedly. "Erik, look at the flowers!"

"It _is_ spring, my dearest. And there are many more flowers in the garden."

Although it is warm, there is a slight breeze and little sun. I should have known that Erik would only venture out if it was somewhat overcast. How had he known?

I lean heavily on his arms as he totters me over to the waiting carriage. I expect him to pull away, but he does not. He helps me up and lets go extremely quick.

We stayed out all morning. I sat on the far side of the carriage, staring out the window, savoring all the sights I had not known I had missed. I had never been much of a nature girl, preferring the indoors, but now I wanted to stay out forever.

"Christine?" Erik asks as the carriage rumbles along. "You ate very little for breakfast. Are you hungry?"

I wonder if he is really concerned for me or if he just wants to get home. I give my shoulders a little shrug when I catch sight of little yellow flowers littering the side road.

"Erik! Look at the little petals!"

"Yes, those are Bermuda buttercups. Would you like me to tell you a story about them?"

"Oh, yes please."

Safe in a carriage, watching scenic views while Erik's voice soared around the compartment, felt like nothing less than heaven.

"We are circling back to the Rue Scribe." he murmurs when his story is finished. "I do think it's time to go back."

Once again, Erik supports my weight on his arm as he lifts me out of the carriage. I purse my lips at the sight of the stairs before me. I hold my arms out like an infant.

"Carry me?" I plead.

"Of course. Forgive me." he comments deeply, his voice sounding a little empty. He swings me gently into his arms and begins to walk down with apparent ease once more.

Like before, I put my head on his shoulder. I decide that I like the curled up feeling I experience while in his arms; it was like being rocked to sleep.

When I opened my eyes, Erik was carrying me into the drawing room.

"Would you like me to fix you lunch?" he asks, tenderly laying me on the couch.

I sit up, sweeping the disorganized clouds of sleep from my mind. What is it that makes me so tired when I am around Erik? I scoot over so there is a space beside me. "No. Come sit down next to me."

He stands over me with an arrogant expression. "Why?"

I give a sigh. "Because we have had a productive morning and I would like to keep it a good afternoon."

"Productive?" he questions sourly, sitting carefully on the dark seat.

"Yes. Don't you like how we've interacted with each other?"

"Erik loves talking to his wife." he answers smugly.

I give him a soft smile. "Will you take off your mask?"

He immediately shuts down, turning away from me and tuning cold. I could almost feel his mind blocking me, all of his senses tuning unresponsive to me. I fight the tears welling up in my eyes; for a moment, I had thought he might obey me without question.

"Why do you always say no?" I demand, sniffling a little. "I have seen what you look like. You cannot honestly believe that it still bothers me."

He still faces stubbornly away from me. I lay my hand on his arm. "Tell me the truth, please. Tell me why you still won't remove your mask in my presence."

He revolves to face me. His hand goes up and he violently rips the mask from his face. I flinch at his sudden movement. "You want to know?" he says roughly. "I will tell you, my loving, wonderful wife. Every time that I think there is the _tinniest_ chance that you might care for me, you have to remind me of why you cannot love me! Because of _my face_!"

I am not so petty. I was, once. Not now.

"Erik, your looks have nothing to do with why I do not love you." I explain. I mouth wordlessly for a second, not knowing how to back myself up. I bring my hands together, pulling my ankle under my cushion. It's much colder down here than outside, and it makes my ankle sore and my skin cold.

Erik gets up and brings me a white shawl from across the room. He drapes it around me silently. His mask is already back on.

"Then why?" he asks doubtfully. "What can I do to make you love me?"

_You can let me go…_

"Love cannot be forced, Erik."

"No?"

I bite my lip. "It must come—naturally."

He crosses his arms and towers over me. "You love for your viscount comes naturally enough, I daresay! Are you so sure it has nothing to do with looks?"

"I think we should… go have lunch now." I say hesitantly, shrinking away from his furious stance. Erik chuckles under his breath.

"You do not wish to interact with your Erik anymore?" he mocks. "Are we no longer _productive_?"

"Stop it, Erik!" I shout, leaping to my feet. "_This_ is why I cannot love you!"

I look straight into his glistening eyes. "What have you done to Raoul? He came to rescue me, and you did something to him. When I woke up, he was gone." My voice is icy cold and most unlike me.

"Raoul tried to take you away from me."

"Raoul _loves_ me."

Erik jumps forward and grabs my waist. I muffle a cry as his long fingers tangle into the folds of my dress as he drags me close to him. I do not quiver. I refuse to look away from him.

"Erik loves you too!" he says venomously. "Do you not believe him? What more must he do to show you his love? Has he told you how he worries about you every day, wanting you to be happy and safe? Does he tell you how happy you make him when you smile or laugh? Does he tell you how gentle he tries to be with you, how careful he was when he fixed you ankle? Christine, does he tell you how beautiful, how _tempting_—" one hand moves from my waist, up my back, "—how _desirable_ you are to him?"

His hands are gently exploring my back with slender movements, dancing up to my neck and hair. Seizing my curls, he pulls my head back and I truly think he wanted to kiss me on the lips.

But he simply skims my nose with his mask, and I, on instinct, pull it off.

He growls and pushes me back onto the couch. His breathing is harsh and heavy, his eyes glowing with something I have never seen before. The rational part of my mind warns me that I should be very afraid of him in this instant.

"Tell me, Christine, do you love me now?"

"No."

He laughs like a maniac. "Good girl! I should think not. Erik ruins his chances whenever they pass him by, does he not?"

I curl against the couch, pretending they are my gentle Erik's arms around me, not this raging madman who stands above me. His hideous face looks down at me as he reaches, running his finger over my lips as he moans.

"You are playing games with me!" he says. "You are deliberately hurting me! How can you kiss a man you do not love?"

I flush with shame. Oh God, I had kissed Erik and I did not love him. He kept me against my will and I still kissed him. I kissed the man who had tried to kill my fiancé, and who had no doubt murdered many before that! Why had I made such a foolish decision? It had been so late, and so dark…

Was Erik keeping me here against my will?

I had had several chances to escape, and yet I remained here each time. Was it because I could not bear to hurt him? Why should I feel bad about hurting Erik? He was a horrible man.

A horrible man who loved me.

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me, and I have a mental image of him over me a day ago, crying "_Why? Why_?", while my ankle throbbed.

"You do not answer me." he states. "Why, you look as though it is a difficult question! I really do not think it is. Should I ask again? Do you kiss men whom you do not love?"

I think of Erik and I do not want to mislead him, or give him false feelings. "Yes."

"Ah, my dear, you give me such hope! Perhaps you do not love Raoul de Chagny after all!"

"Lunch." I say coldly. "I would like to go have lunch now."

He takes his mask from the chair and replaces it on his face. He seems to be in a good mood now, which only increases my anger.

"Lunch." he repeats. "A sordid affair. But altogether necessary, I suppose."

I storm out of the room, feeling his eyes on my back. What irritates me most is not his remarks, not his kisses, not even his temper.

It's that I still do not know where Raoul is.

--


	9. Thoughts

--

Life has become an endless game of tempers and affection. He loves me, he yells at me, he loves me, he yells at me. I can't handle it. I can't. So I lock myself up in my room, shaking like a baby.

I end up staying in my room for three days straight, coming out only to eat by myself. Every night, Erik says, "Goodnight, Christine.", and every night I ignore him.

But while I am in my room, I have begun to think. I am trying to realize what barriers I have crossed and what choices have influenced these. I come up with this conclusion:

I am a girl who has the capacity to make her choices like a woman, but instead chooses them like a child. I wear my heart on my sleeve and show off my emotions too easily, yet I am always attempting to hide them. Erik is right; I only think in the moment and not in the moment after. I must learn to appreciate the consequences.

The only thing I cannot figure out is what I feel towards Erik. Pity? Possibly. Hatred? I don't think so. He can be furious one moment, and crying the next, and my feeling of him are similar. One moment, I care deeply for him, and the next I despise him.

I begin to realize how two people should act to each other when they are married, and I don't think Erik and I are doing that at all.

How can I force myself to fall in love with him?

How can I have sweet dreams about a man who looks like death while I am crying over Raoul every night? The strange thing is, whenever I am with Erik, I forget about Raoul.

_Love must come naturally._

My own words. So difficult to follow. And yet, something I have to do.

I can do it!

I had to be the one to make this work. I knew Erik; his faults, his weaknesses, his strengths. He would never be the one to pull us together. He needs guidance to make his decisions as well. Must I be the adult here?

So I venture out of my room one afternoon, take a deep breath, and look for my husband.

He is in his room, sitting at his organ. He turns, looking surprised to see me.

"You surface!" he says. "How is your foot?"

His tone makes it very clear that he is expecting me to still be angry. He has not yet realized the revelation I have had. I go and plop myself next to him, slide the mask from his face, and kiss him on his cheek.

"Much better, thank you." I reply as lightly as I can, ignoring his expression and his trembling hands, which are trying to claw me away. I put his mask back on for him. "I'm quite thirsty, however. Could we have some tea?"

Erik looks as though he might never speak again. I wonder briefly if he's gone into shock. I see his eyes scrambling for words as he brings his fingers up and touches the spot where I kissed him under his mask.

"Tea?" he repeats foggily.

"Yes, tea." I hop up. "Come, come, I will make it, but you must show me where some things are."

I end up chatting happily with him all day while he says not a word. At night, I request a song and then blow him a kiss.

"Good night, Erik." I say sweetly. He stares at me in awe.

"Good night, Christine." I hear him say very softly as I go to my room.

I feel giddy as I snuggle up in my covers. We did not exchange one unpleasant word! I am happy and refreshed, and I wonder if he will come in my room tonight and ask for a kiss. That gets me a little nervous, but he never comes and I drift off to sleep.

The next day, I greet him with a cheery, "Good morning" and a quick peck on the forehead. He takes me on a walk around the lake and tells me a story as I clutch onto his arm.

Every day, it grows easier for me to show affection to him. He is oddly silent most of the time, though sometimes I catch him staring avidly at me until I meet his eyes, and he looks away.

"Erik loves you." he tells me one evening as we sit on the couch together as I embroider and he simply watches me.

"I know that, Erik." I say softly. "You are very kind to me." I say no more.

"As you've been kind to me." he says back. "Why have you been so… kind… to me this past week?"

"_I_ am trying to make this marriage work."

Erik thinks, leaning back and exhaling. I want to climb into his lap so he can sing to me, but I don't think he would appreciate it. I feel silly for thinking such a thing. Why would I want to climb into Erik's lap?

"That is good of you." he says finally. He reaches out and touches my face with his hand, still looking a little frightened that I might pull away. "But you were angry at me one day, and then you came out of your room and you were—like this."

I have thought about my mistakes during that argument as well. "Yes. I was. I am sorry. I should not have mentioned Ra—I should not have angered you. I know you love me. That was my fault."

"It was _my_ fault, not yours." he mutters. "Why do you always apologize when Erik is so ashamed of himself? Sometimes my temper makes me forget who I am, Christine. You could never imagine."

He leaves me with that cryptic remark and I feel so unhappy in that moment, thinking of my poor Erik, unable to control his temper and lashing out at the only person he loves.

I climb over and lay my head on his shoulder. He is so very thin, and I can feel his muscles tighten beneath me. I put my hand on his own.

"I love you." Erik repeats weakly. I squeeze his fingers.

The next morning, he vanishes for an hour or so (I lock the door) and then returns with good news.

"I have a surprise for you, wife." he says proudly. "Would you like to go see _Faust_ tonight?"

I allow my mind to process this. "Here? Upstairs?"

He nods vigorously, taking my hands in his cold ones. "I will show you to very 'special seats', if you understand."

I frown. "Where?"

"In the rafters, my darling! No one ever sees Erik when he goes up there. It is a perfect place for us to sit and enjoy a lovely view! Consider it a gift from me to you."

"Can't we—can't we just sit in the normal seats?"

He pulls up my hand and bestows a kiss on each finger. It feels ticklish, and I blush. "Where is the fun in that, love? This will be special."

"Tonight?" I ask, allowing myself to grow excited. He knows that is my favorite show and the significance it holds for me. I haven't seen it for ages and it would be a nice change to s_ee_ it rather than be _performing_ it. I wonder how well the opera company is coping with all their scandals before my absence.

Erik smiles at me. It's reassuring to know that he can. It's hard to tell under the mask, but I can tell by the creases on the side of his mouth and the lift of his upper face. "Tonight is the last performance, my little angel. We shall go up at quarter to seven."

I clap my hands like a little girl and throw my arms around his neck.

After a second, he puts his arms around my waist and I feel butterflies. I press against him, confused. Was I supposed to feel like this? What had I felt when I hugged Raoul? I couldn't even remember.

Leaning against Erik feels—nice. He is taller than Raoul, so that I can lean my head on his shoulder, but he's not so tall that I cannot look into his face. He is still so very cold and I decide that is what bothers me most about physical affection towards him, even more so than his face, yet I'm getting used to it.

He holds me for a minute, his grasp peaceful and serene, unlike his desperate groping in the drawing room last week.

He pushes me away. "Would you like to go sing?" Without waiting for an answer, he goes into the drawing room.

He plays flawlessly on the piano as I sing. I travel to another world where I can think again.

Erik loves me.

Yes, he really does. I have tried to tell myself that I am just an obsession to him, and infatuation with the _idea_ of me, but I am learning. I think of how brave he was, hugging me in the main room, when a month ago I couldn't even imagine him touching me. Am I encouraging him? Most importantly, should I stop? My head had been swirling when he hugged me. _Why_?

"Christine?"

I blink.

Erik is looking at me worriedly. "Christine, I asked if you were well."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You—you stopped singing."

I blush crimson. "I'm so sorry. I was thinking. Let's start over."

I step back into position as he watches me a little longer than necessary, and then turns back to the piano.

I sing all the way through the aria, all the way to the duet, feeling goose bumps on my arms as I hear my Angel's voice join me.

--


	10. In the Rafters

--

"Ready, my sweetest?"

I hear his voice call me from where he is probably waiting by the door. I have been ridiculously excited all day, knowing that he is letting me out without me having to beg him. I have interpolated lines from _Faust_ in all of our conversations today, and he knows how I am looking forward to this. Our little excursion was a big step for us, I believe. I pull a pale pink sash over my gown and go to meet him.

He meets my eyes. "No need to dress up so. No one will see you."

I feel awkward. "You will."

He opens his mouth as if to say something and then closes it. "Well… come along, then."

I take his hand as he leads me to a path I've never been down. It appears to be a murky cellar that feels dark and damp and I tighten my hold on Erik's hand.

"Don't be frightened." he murmurs in a soothing voice. "It will be light in a minute."

I am comforted as I sense his shape next to me. We climb strange, little steps until we are on a level I recognize; if I am not much mistaken, we are backstage.

Before we can be seen, Erik pulls me into the shadows as he lifts me up a spiraling, wrought-iron stair.

"Erik," I ask nervously. "Are we going up very high?"

"Oh yes." he answers. "Right to the top."

I cling to his hand. "No one can see us?"

He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, which I take as a 'no'.

When we finally stop, we are on a block of wood that is about as long and as wide as a carriage, which hung precariously from the rafters, close to the side wall. I decide it looks fairly sturdy until I look down.

"Oh!" I cry out and press my face into Erik's vest. We are so very high! Looking down upon the stage where I once roamed is very frightening when it is at a new angle!

"Christine?" Erik asks. He sighs. "I would push you away, but you feel so very nice."

I pull back, just a small bit. "It's just that… we are high up."

"I am sorry it startled you." Erik says deeply. "I assure you that you will not fall."

For some reason, I laugh at the solemnity of his statement. He eyes me curiously, but says nothing. I want to lean back on Erik, but my rational mind wants to know why on earth I would want to do that. The result is that I stand there, looking around blankly.

"Sit."Erik coaxes, lifting me up and placing me on the wood. I stay on my knees, making sure I have an arm's length space around me from each edge.

Erik laughs at me and begins pulling down a long rope which brings down some sort of wall in back. "You can lean back now." he says. "This is very safe."

"How do you know?" I mutter, pulling my legs up under my chin.

"I _made_ it. I am quite sure of its quality, thank you."

There is a touch of pride and annoyance in his voice and I realize he must have thought I was insulting him. Doesn't he understand it is my fear of heights and not my lack of faith in his abilities?

I put my hand on the side of his neck and try to smile. "If I fall, will you catch me?" I am only half joking.

As usual, my touch seems to distract him for a moment, but then he nods slowly, saying, "Erik would never let his Christine fall."

We have arrived just in time for the show; it should be starting any minute. As the music begins, I chance a look backstage, where everyone is scrambling to get ready.

For a moment, I wish I was down there as well. Everyone looks so excited and carefree, with no worries about fate or choices, only about their voice or feet. What I wouldn't give to be that girl again! I look around wistfully for any ballerinas, anyone I would recognize.

Erik comes and crouches down next to me. His gloved hand takes my wrist and gently pulls me slightly away from the edge. We both are still as the curtain opens.

Oh, it is so nice to hear singing again! I bit my tongue in pure ecstasy, letting all the sounds wash over me. Music! True, the male singer sounds nothing like my dear Erik, sitting next to me, humming the tenor line, and yet it is so poignant it brings tears to my eyes.

As the show goes on, I stay by the edge and Erik stays next to me, and I find myself drifting so casually towards his shoulder. He is so still and silent, I can almost mistake him for a real angel, promising to catch me if I fall.

I finally lean into his chest, bringing up my legs and curling against him. He inhales sharply as I feel him grow accustomed to my weight against him. When Faust leans in to kiss his lovely Marguerite, I hear him sigh. By the time Act III is over, he has wrapped his arms around me and is running his fingers through my hair.

I do not mind in the slightest.

Later, when the ballet comes on, I sit up, looking about for familiar faces. I was never really friends with any of the girls; I was a shy and lonely girl, but I did look up to many of them. Erik sighs once again in disappointment when I leave his arms. I turn to him.

"I'm coming back." I tell him, going back to his side.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, looking far too relieved that I had returned for me to believe his plea of ignorance.

I smile a little at his innocent look and press a kiss to his mask. "You were sad I left."

"That I was."

When I try to go back down to his shoulder, he holds me upright, so our faces are still touching. I freeze as both of his hands come and secure me from behind.

"Don't stop." he whispers, and his voice has changed. He sounds weak and insecure, no longer my mighty Angel of a moment ago. I put my lips back to the material, cooled by his skin, and kiss him again. He pulls away his mask so I am touching his alabaster skin, smooth and deceptive. I have yet to meet his lips in our two-moths of marriage. I wonder if they would be smooth as well. I need to find out.

I settle in front of him, closer than I have ever been, my hands around his neck. I think he senses what is coming, for he becomes as unresponsive as stone, twisting away from me, trying to shield his face with his mask.

There was once a time when I couldn't have even dreamed of touching him, but now I have found it is easier to accept when one is actually giving it a chance. I could grow angry at him, for pushing me away; I could cry; I could sigh and leave it be. But someone as indecisive as I learns that when a decision is made, you must stick to it. I will kiss my husband. I have made my choice.

Little steps. Baby steps. Love him one bit at a time.

His lips are cold.

That is the only thing I can think of while pressing mine against his. His lips are ice cold, the coldest part of him, aside from his fingers. They chill my entire face, dragging against mine.

His reaction is slow.

I have kissed him.

He does not kiss me back right away, staying still as a statue under my hands. I can literally feel his resolve crumbling as his skeletal fingers reach out and embrace me carefully around the waist. For the first time in his life, Erik kisses a woman.

He kisses _me_.

I am thinking of tears again, but instead he just grips me tightly, his breath mixed with mine. I am physically and emotionally closer to him than I have ever imagined. Probably closer than he has ever hoped for.

Amazed by the utter simplicity of it, _I_ am the one who starts to cry.

He jerks sharply away, leaving me with the all-too familiar feeling he always leaves me with. I stare at him hopelessly. "Come back!" I say brokenly, my voice cracking at the end.

He shakes his head and stares at me. "How could I—my love, my precious angel, I—"

We sit like that for the rest of the performance.

As applause rings out at the end, I look towards my husband. He meets my gaze half-heartedly and rises to his feet. I sit, crumpled at his feet and don't move.

"Time to go home." he whispers, touching one of my curls. I don't move.

Such a soft kiss he gave me… so sharply he jerked away…

My mind is too full at the moment to walk.

"I do believe you've spoiled me." I say slowly. "I am now expecting you to carry me everywhere."

I let him gather me in his arms as he leads me down. I have lost all interest in backstage as he hurries along the dark passages.

_Did I kiss men whom I did not love?_

I am a foolish girl, a girl who should never have been forced to carry such a burden of obsessive and passionate love! All my mistakes, all my decisions, everything has come down to one question that I am unable—or unwilling to answer.

He sets me down in the main room, props me back on my feet, leaving his hand at my back for a little longer than he normally would have.

I spin around wildly and press my lips to his desperately.

Is this what I have wanted to do along? Kiss him? He is a monster! A murderer! He is Death himself!

"My mask!" he murmurs into my lips. "I have left it in the rafters!"

I ignore him, pressing little kisses all over his face, standing on my tip toes to reach his forehead. He drags me with surprising force and holds me close to his body. I suppress a shiver at his temperature, but I do not stop in my exploration of his face. He is panting, his lips going eagerly into mine.

"Christine, Christine," he keeps whispering. "Is this happening, or shall I wake up in a moment, like always?"

Our kisses slow until they are gentle and light. Why am I doing this? Tell me, Erik, what have I been holding back for so long? My maturity? My courage? What is it?

"_Love of the most exquisite kind!"_

I drop my hands from his shoulders and he looks at me for a long moment as I back away from him. At the doorway to my room, I stop and we continue staring.

The air could be sliced with a knife.

"Goodnight, Christine." he offers awkwardly, pulling up his right hand and running it across his cheek, as if to check that the mask was really absent from his face. His hand runs all across his mouth area and down his neck, and he straightens his collar, which I notice had become askew during our intimate kiss.

_Is that it_?

"Goodnight, Erik." I say back softly, looking down at the rich carpet. He goes and turns down all the lights in the main room, so I can only see his shadow as he walks towards the direction of his bedroom.

Carrying me… taking me places… what I felt around him… was I willing to dare? For the past two months, I have continually denied any feelings at all for him, ever since I discovered who he is. And yet, I wonder what I would feel if I _allowed_ myself to feel for once. A certain level of care… devotion… genuine concern… I may not love Erik the way a normal wife should love her husband, but it's love nonetheless.

Oh God. My revelation was startlingly clear. Should I remain blind? Should I tell him?

_Not now._

Was I sure? Speaking those words to Erik wouldn't be quite like speaking them to anyone else.

I hesitate, closing my eyes in the dark and imagining his kiss. It hadn't been passionate, it hadn't been perfect. But it had been love.

"Erik?" I say again, opening my eyes. His shadow pauses at his door, as I have. I feel light and giddy, yet so solemn. I can see his eyes glowing in the dark.

"I—I love you."

--


	11. Strange Love

--

I stay by my door for a second that feels like eternity, wishing more than anything that the lights were up. I whirl around into my room and slam the door.

Panting as if I have run a thousand miles, I lean against my doorframe, listening for any movement in the outer room. There is a twisty feeling in my stomach as my face crumples like I am about to cry.

I have said it.

I wrap my arms around myself as I stumble over to my bed, pulling on my nightgown.

What if I didn't mean it? Was it really so hard to say? Why do I have so many questions without answers?

Panic overtakes me. If this is love, I shouldn't be feeling like this. I shouldn't be cold and depressed like I am. I should be warm and fuzzy, signing romantic ballads to my prince, just like love is supposed to be. But I have not fallen in love with the prince of the story, not the protagonist. Young girls were not supposed to fall in love with the villain. They always had an unhappy ending.

I stay awake for most of the night, wondering if Erik will come in. I wait. And wait.

He never comes.

When morning rises, I open my door carefully, checking to see if he is out there. Half of me imagines that he is the exact same spot, stunned in his position by the door, not moving the entire night. I close the door again and dress quickly, feeling… excited? Nervous? Apprehensive?

When I step into the main room, he is still nowhere to be seen. Both the drawing room and his bedroom door are open and vacant inside. I am more confused than worried as I go about the house, calling for him.

"Erik?" my voice keeps asking. "Where are you?"

After five minutes of this, I know he is not here. He is gone.

_Gone where_?

Horrible mental images flash through my mind; he could be unconscious in another room, he could have fallen and hit his head—what if he had gone outside and been caught or imprisoned? What if he had fallen and lay in his own blood, calling my name—

"Christine?"

I jump in sheer terror as an ice cold hand touches my back. A shriek tumbles from my mouth as I turn to face him, a black creature with fiery eyes.

"I did not know you were awake." he comments, looking a little upset. "I answered you when you called. You did not hear. I was just outside."

Sure enough, the front door is ajar behind him, and I feel light-headed as I realized I was thinking of his demise and actually _dreading _it—I do care for him, I do! I know that now! My head clouded with relief and the raw fear from a moment ago makes my mind slowly comprehend that Erik had left me alone in this house and could have been anywhere, somewhere I would never know. He could have never been coming back, and instead of greeting him pleasantly or reminding the poor man that I love him, I say "You left me!" and then burst into tears.

If I have ever seen Erik look bewildered before, it is nothing compared to now, for even under his mask I can sense his expression. I bury my face in my hands as I give pitiful sniffles and cough.

"Erik would never, ever leave you." he says, reaching forward and bringing my hands down from my face. "Don't hide your pretty face so, Christine, Erik would never leave you alone. His mask, darling, he went up to retrieve his mask! That is all."

I gulp and look at him, ashamed of my outpouring emotions. "I was just worried that—that you might—might—that you—were gone."

It seems so silly to tell him that I was worried for his well-being when he is standing in front of me, just as assured and full of power as he always is. Erik is an unapproachable man—nothing threatens him, yes?

He puts his hand under my chin and stares into my eyes. "Did you really mean it?" he asks softly.

"Mean that I was worried?" I ask, furrowing my brow.

"No." He pauses. "What you said before. Last night."

He looks so sick to hear the answer that I wonder if he would die if I said no. Oh, unhappy thoughts!—I am not so cruel!

"Yes." I whisper back.

He looks utterly awed. He seems to struggle with himself, turning his head to fix me with an even more penetrating stare. "That is—that is nice."

"It's very nice." I agree.

He stares at me again and I wonder if he is going to laugh at me or cry, when he says, "You have made me a very brave man, Christine."

His hands on my chin go down my neck to my shoulder and he pulls me forward. "Will you kiss me?" he asks, and his voice is breathy and full of uncertainty.

"If you take off your mask." I say, amazed by his closeness. Brave, indeed!

He flings it off his face so it lands on the other side of the floor and clutches at me again, looking so eager that I want to smile as I brush my lips against his.

He will have none of that, however. "Now, little love, that's not very inspiring at all. Is that how a wife kisses her husband?"

His words bring heat to my cheeks as I lean forward again.

In our dark, depressing world down here, I think we have found solace in each other. I have found that I love Erik, perhaps not as much as I should, or perhaps more than anyone else could believe, but love is love. Erik loves me. Why must I be so harsh on someone like that?

"I can kiss you." he says, trailing his lips over mine as they grow more and more rapid. I do not push him away. "I can kiss you because I can, because every husband is allowed to kiss his wife! Yes, Erik is a good husband because his wife makes him happy! See! Look into my demon face and tell me I am happy!"

I am alarmed by his ferocity as his kisses become more and more urgent. I feel like I am doing something I should not be. All my life, I have been a little girl and I am being thrust into womanhood so soon and abruptly…

"I have given you happiness?" I ask, mostly to distract him more than anything else. His passion bothers me in many a ways I cannot explain. I want him near me, but when he oversteps his boundaries, I want him as far away as possible. I am a wretched woman! This is love!

"Yes, you have given me anything Erik could possibly ask for." he says, turning grave. "And I must do the same for you, my wife. Shall _I_ give you anything, Christine? I could give you freedom, you know, I could give you your young man, anything you ask for because _I love you_!"

He is half-crying now, and I can't tell if it is from joy or despair. Was there no end to his tears? If I hated him, he cried. If I loved him, he cried. His hands have slid down from my chin and are clasped together, and I am struck with a flashback of us holding hands in this very room as I promised to be his living wife. Erik had offered me freedom then as well. He had just as quickly taken it back.

Now he stands before me, and if I told him to release me, I think he might have. What I wouldn't have given to have been offered this gift two months ago! But now, my choices are different.

I think, and say, "I want you to burn your mask."

He looks at me as if I have four heads.

"Yes, that's it." I decide aloud. " I have burned it before and will do it again, but I want _you_ to do this time."

Anything that would help him. Anything that could change him for the better. He could never be happy so long as he was hiding behind that mask! How was he to be emotionally open to me if he still insisted on shielding himself?

"My face, Christine." he says. "You cannot love me because of my face. You will learn to forget my face, but you must stop asking—"

"I've had enough of you!" I say irritably. I have the strongest desire to stamp my foot, but Erik would not find that funny at all. " You said you would give me _anything_. I am choosing this. You have no say in the matter. My feelings for you, both good and bad, would hardly change if you had a different face. How would _you_ like it if I hid my face all the time?" I bring up my hands like a child playing peek-a-boo.

"Christine," he protests, but his voice has a surreal note of surrender to it. He sucks in a breath as I go across the room to get his mask and then slide back into his arms. He watches me with wary eyes.

"You smile." he says slowly. "Look at you, Christine, you smile! You are _happy_?"

His expression of complete desolation contrasts oddly with his words. I kiss him lightly.

_I have made my choice. _

Yes, another choice. I have chosen that I will try to be happy. I will learn, in time. I _can _be happy with Erik. I must only apply myself.

I hold out my hand. "Come. When we burn this mask, I will be even happier."

--


	12. The Music Speaks

--

I have spent three days alone.

Oh, Erik is here, of course. He knows better than to leave me again. He has simply barricaded himself in the drawing room with his piano as chords bang out incessantly for hours at a time.

I do grow quite bored out here. There is so little to do. I have wandered from book to book, sewed up every hole in my wardrobe, and tidied the entire kitchen.

That reminds me of the newspaper I discovered yesterday. Erik brings them in every other day or so, but I cannot figure out when he leaves to go up to the world outside; he must do it while I am sleeping. What is his obsession with newspapers? They litter the counters in the kitchen, yet I have never actually seen him ever read one. He just collects them. What caught my attention the previous day was an ad addressed to 'O.G' in a foreign language. I highly doubt that it is referring to Erik, but it made me uneasy at the time. I must remember to ask him about it when he is out.

However, when the next day comes, I have completely forgotten.

He comes up behind me in the kitchen as I am washing dishes. Usually when he is done composing, he is in either an exuberant mood or a very poor one indeed.

"What are you doing?" he snaps.

I drop the dish. Why does he have to _sneak_ everywhere?

"I'm just cleaning—"

"Put it down! We must go sing! We don't wash dishes when we should be singing!"

He stalks away and I follow him, drying off my hands. "Have you composed a new song?" I ask hopefully, hoping to sound proud.

He laughs. "Yes! Many, many songs, Christine. Would you like to hear them?"

He steps into the drawing room and then closes the door behind him. I always find it funny when he does things like that; it's not as though anyone else can hear us! He points to the couch and I go sit against it like I always do. I oblige, his mask-less face turned towards mine. Oh, he is so ugly!—and yet I grow more accustomed to the sight every day. Something can only scare you for so long, and then it simply becomes something you are used to. It can hardly scare you when you know what it is, can it?

"Listen, darling! Listen to Erik's songs! He is so happy for them, so happy that they are out!" He settles himself at the keys, murmuring fervidly to himself in tones I cannot hear. His music is already out in front of him. "Four songs, Christine! You are going to listen to each of them, for they are all about you!"

I should be flattered, but I expect them all to be about me now. His whole world is me.

He plays so gently, and the music is so sweet and true, almost innocent. It speaks of exploration and quiet chords that echo each other over and over again, like an endless circle. I am smiling when he is done.

"I have made you smile again." he says, his glowing eyes gazing straight at me. "That was when I first heard you, Christine. Could you hear my emotions? Could you hear what I was thinking?"

"Yes." I whisper. I could hear the wonder, the ecstasy, and the child-like discovery.

His next piece is different; there is definitely a darker tone to it, but it is still joyous and more complex. "This is us, Christine," he says, speaking while he is playing. "This is us, together. Do you like it?"

"Of course." I reply. I do like it. This one has so much going on that it is hard to follow—his fingers are moving too fast for me to catch any real tune.

Erik takes his hands away for a moment. When he puts them back, he gives no pause, but bursts into the next piece.

If anything is called _dark_ in music, this would be it.

The notes are frightening and rough and—_exciting_. There is a current in it that is dragging me up to a real world where everything is not so innocent. Everything is spinning and crashing together until I can't stand it anymore and I cover my ears with my hands.

Erik stops instantly, watching me. Every contour of his yellowed face is absolutely blank, no emotion seeping through anywhere. He just sits there and _stares_.

"That wasn't me." I protest weakly, my heart pounding from the violent music. "That was harsh."

"Harsh?" he echoes. "I think not. And it _was_ about you, my little flower. It is about the side of you that you have yet to discover, but I know it's there. You'll find it someday, I am sure. Everybody does, eventually. You, my remarkably naive, little bride, have still not ventured into a world as dark as that yet."

His words frighten me. "What do you mean?"

He sighs. "That was about how I feel about you sometimes."

"So dark and… and…?"

Erik raises his shoulders. "That is not to say that I am thinking about that part of you all the time. I lust after other things as well… your company, your attention, your smile… things I enjoy just as much… but I can't imagine—"

He cuts off sharply and turns to the next piece. "Last one, of course. This is about us in the future, Christine. This is what you and I will be like someday."

My head is processing all his words. He is talking so funny and it scares me so that I find it difficult to pay attention to his last song—the last song that he must have worked so hard on.

_A world so dark as that…?_

He knows he cannot speak such riddles to me. I am a figurative person, but I am not analytical. I do not know what he means when he uses metaphors, when he speaks so deeply about things I do not understand.

"Go away, now."

I look up. His face is angry.

"I said, go away." He rises. "Did you not hear me?"

I gather my skirts, worried that he is angry because I did not comment on his last song. Did he notice I wasn't listening? I was too busy thinking about his third.

I am halfway to the door when he says, "Come here."

I swivel, my hands on my hips. "You just ordered me away! What do you mean, I have to c—"

"Erik has been busy working for four days, has he not?" he growls. "Erik deserves a kiss, do you not agree?"

I approach him timidly and kiss him. I do not like this. He is cold and bony to me again, and I derive no pleasure from my lips meeting with his.

He pushes me away. "Now you may go."

"I did not mean to make you angry." I murmur. "I was listening to the last song, I really was—"

His voice flares up. "I could care _less_ whether or not you were listening! I explained what each was! You did not have to listen! You did not want to _feel_, you just wanted to be _told_ what I feel! Awe, love, desire, hope, all that was written for you! And you don't understand!"

I back away from his flaming eyes. "I am not going to argue with you, Erik."

"Of course you're not." he replies, and his voice has gone back to normal. "You are a good wife. You love me. Don't you, Christine? Say to Erik, 'I love you'."

"You are confusing me, but I—I love you."

He steps forward and kisses my forehead. I do not move, even when his dead flesh touches me. I am a good wife, as he says. I love him, in my own little way. Why? How? These I cannot explain to him, but I can tell him what he needs to hear. I love him. That's all he wants to know.

"Christine is still happy down here, no?" he asks, pressing his face into my hair.

"I was becoming lonely." I admit vainly.

"Oh, my poor dear! Erik does not want his love lonely! He will stay by her side for the rest of the afternoon." His hand wraps around mine. "Is that what you want?"

I hesitate. "Yes." I reply with all honesty. "Can we sing later? I thought we were going to sing."

His eyes are thoughtful. "We will sing now, if you prefer."

I smile. "I would like that as well."

His hand goes up to my face. He pushes himself against me so that our entwined hands are up on his chest, right on top of his heart. "I love you so very much."

"You don't need to tell me that."

"You are a good wife to poor Erik. He does not deserve anything you give to him. You give him everything he asks for."

I look into his desperate eyes and nod. "I want you to be happy."

"Yes, you have said that before." he remarks. "I remember every word you've ever said, Christine, can you believe that?"

I nod again.

"Would you like to sing now?"

Later on that evening, when I am in the darkness of my room, I reflect on his newly composed pieces and muse over his strange and cryptic message about his most powerful piece. When I finally figure out what he was talking about, I grow very still in my bed, my heart pounding at his candidness.

I get up and bolt the door. Ashamed at my actions, I cower on my bed, hearing Erik's voice say, '_You are a good wife_'.

Yes, a good wife who denies her husband entrance to her room and to her bed.

'_Does he tell you how tempting, how desirable you are to him?'_

'_A side of you that you have yet to discover.'_

'_That is how I feel about you sometimes.'_

His words well up in me, so that despite his reassurances of my wifely qualities, I am really not a good wife at all. How can I perform a wife's… _duties_… to her husband when it took me over eight-solid weeks before I could bear to kiss him?

And how dare he say such things to me! How dare he sit in that room and compose a song about his… his feelings!

This is indeed a bridge I had hoped never to cross. This is something I must face eventually. And yet, I am still able to convince myself that all Erik wants of me if a simple kiss every now and then, a few words of comfort. He has never asked for anything more.

I remember the newspaper right as I am falling asleep. Tomorrow, I think. I'll tell him about it tomorrow.

--


	13. Now and Ever

--

"No! No! You are singing it all wrong!"

Erik gives me a menacing glare as his hands cease their movement on the keys. My last note lingers in the silent air for an extra moment while I release all my breath.

I stop wearily. "I don't understand what I am doing incorrectly—"

"Yesterday you sang it fine! What has happened to you?"

I grow upset. "My voice doesn't sound any different than it did yesterday!"

"Silence!" He stands up, coming behind me. "Where is your support? It's hampering your phrases!"

His hand draws up my back without touching me, and I automatically straighten, following the movement his hand makes.

"That's better." he says approvingly, and I feel warm with pride. "Now let's sing it again."

I lift up my chin as Erik starts his bizarre introduction he has written for this piece. I am concentrating in such a way that my eyebrows furrow and my hands clench.

Alas, Erik notices.

He does not grow furious, as I expected. Instead, he sighs and puts his hands in his lap. "I think it is time for bed, sweetheart. You are very tired."

I look down at my nails. "I know I am disappointing you."

"Hardly." he says, but his tune is short and unconvincing. I trudge towards the door. "Aren't you coming?" I ask, when it appears that he is not following.

"I must stay in here for a while. There are things that must be done to this piece."

I frown. "You didn't come to dinner last night either."

"You are speaking the truth."

I cross my arms to go with my scowl. "I have no one to talk to while I eat."

"How strange." he muses aloud. "I seem to recall that during our first days of matrimony, you were silent as a stone and avoided my eye at all costs."

I fix him with a beady stare. "I was very angry and confused, Erik. I did not want anything to do with you." I feel a little hurt that he is reprimanding me for my past actions. Would he like me to remind him of all the cruel things _he_ has done to _me_?

"And then one day you woke up and magically loved me." he said dreamily.

"_That_ is not true." I felt tears sting my eyelids. "I had to _learn_, Erik, and I'm _still_ learning. And it's quite difficult at some times!"

He gave a mournful chuckle. "Why do you have to get so defensive about everything I say? There was once a time when you did whatever I said without question; you nodded, you followed wherever I pointed. You hardly made any noise, except when you sang. Meek, little, insignificant girl! What has happened to her?"

"You _want_ me to go back to that?" I ask. "I like to think that you are making me grow up, but I can recess to the point where I still do not trust you and you do not trust me. Where I act like a ninny and never contribute. Where I never touch you, never kiss you, never want anything to do with you!"

He looks alert. There is horror in his eyes. "Christine would not do that to Erik!" he whispers pitifully. "Christine loves Erik!"

I feel guilty for what I have said. How ridiculous! I should not feel guilty for speaking the truth! Even so, I look into his eyes and feel my heart move.

I had to stop hurting this man.

"I am sorry for saying such things." I tell him softly. I go across the room and put my hand on his shoulder. He flinches—something he has not done in a while. I cup my hand under his cold chin so he will look at me. "I would never do that to you."

"Don't hurt Erik anymore, Christine." he says, looking away. "Please?"

I kiss him very lightly on the lips. "I promise. Now, will you come and eat with me?"

He gives me a little shove. "No. Leave me alone. I must finish this."

"Erik—"

"I am not hungry! Speak to yourself."

I pout. I am not hungry either, but normal human beings eat. I go out of the room and settle on a quick dinner. As I sit at the table, I stare at my food blankly.

"Speak to myself?" I say out loud. I wait. It is still silent in the other room. I wonder if Erik can hear me.

I sigh when I realize that I actually contemplated talking to myself. Perhaps I _am_ going crazy, locked up in this dungeon house. I attack the food more viciously than necessary and eat as fast as I can.

When I am finished with dinner, I leave the plate on the table and go back into the drawing room. The candle has run low so that most of the room is in shadow and it is very difficult for me to see.

I stumble into the room where I can see Erik's shadow at the keys. "Erik? It is so dark in here!"

He turns. "Is it?" he asks. "I am so sorry, I did not notice. I know how it bothers you. You may relight the candles, if you wish."

I feel my way over, but it is already too dark for me to see where I am going. I run into something. I hear Erik sigh. "That would be the couch, my dear."

I pull myself upright, blushing. Tripping around Erik is completely embarrassing for me, seeing that I have never seen Erik take anything less than a perfectly measured step. I tug on my dress, which appears to be caught on the corner of the cushion. "I am stuck." I whisper.

His shadow comes and moves over me, pulling on the fabric on my dress and pushing me into a sitting position on the couch. "Thanks you." I say, but he stands still before me, his hand still holding onto my dress.

He sinks to his knees before me. His glowing eyes do not seem to be on my face, but on the corner of my lavender dress. I grow uneasy. "Erik, wh-what are you doing? I thought you were going to go light the candles!"

My voice rises to a hysterical wail at the end and I realize I am quite frightened. He is level at my waist and utterly still on the floor, while I quiver on the couch. He releases the fabric slightly, so that in runs through his fist and comes up my face, sitting on the couch beside me. He is so very, very close to me, both his hands on either side of me, forcing me to remain where I was.

He kisses me. The brave, bold man kisses me without permission, without asking, without letting me do it first. He _kisses_ me.

I am so used to him be so polite and behaved under my touch, so that feeling him actually seeking me out, his hands responding to me, feels—nice. Normal? I resolve quickly that _I_ will not be the one who is a statue under him, so I kiss him back.

Yes, I kiss Erik. I kiss his ugly lips and _enjoy_ it.

_Poor Raoul… you were so sweet, Raoul, but you were never brave enough to kiss me… I had to kiss you, do you remember?...Erik kisses me… Erik loves me…_

I feel another stab of fear when I realize he is pushing down on me so that I am almost lying down flat on the couch. He is not on top of me, so to speak, but hovering over me, half on the floor, and half on the couch.

I find myself gasping for breath. "Erik, don't—"

He is ignoring me.

"What are you doing? Stop it! I can't—I—"

_His hand is up my dress. _Slowly, going up to my knee. And then stopping.

The folds of my gown are so heavy and the cushions are pressed up against me, so that I might not have even noticed it if his hands weren't so cold. His hand lingers around my ankle and then pulls out.

I start to cry as I feel him disappear from over me and go to relight the candles.

"Don't cry." he says, coming and gathering me into his arms. "Don't cry, my angel, nothing is wrong. Nothing is worth crying over."

I shudder in his arms, my heart confused. Such a violent flash of fear had stirred in me like never before. "You _scared_ me—"

"I know, I know!" he interrupts, his voice a little rough. "I always scare you."

I lay silent, my feeble tears coming to a stop. "I love you." I say weakly. I have no idea what else to say. I just need reassurance… I need to know that I am safe and no one will ever harm me… Erik will never harm me.

"Yes, I know that."

I curl up. "Erik, I don't know what I am thinking half the time." I complain, my voice sounding like a child's. "I don't know what my feelings are for you, I don't know how to interpret anything you do."

"No one ever could." he says softly. "How can I fault you for that?"

It comforts me to hear him speaking so sane. He sounds calm and cool, his words logical and understanding. Yes, this is the Erik that I love.

"Do not forget, Erik, I am only a child—"

"No, you are not." he cuts in. "You are so very contradictory, Christine! You are not a child, you are a woman. And you are my wife."

"Then what do you want from me?" I ask hopelessly.

"Love, Christine." he answers quietly. "All I've _ever_ wanted from you. "

I panic, confused. His actions of a minute ago had given me a different idea. "But—I thought—you told me that you_ wanted_ me…" I cannot say any more without blushing. He may have suddenly become honest about his actions, but I cannot be so forthcoming.

"And so I do!" he says, and his voice suddenly sounds desperate and I still cannot look at him. "But all you have to say is 'no', all you have to do is tell me, and I can be content with what I _do_ have!"

Ah, yes. Have I been leading him on, with my kisses, my tender showings of love? That's all I want to offer right now.

"Say it, Christine. Tell me you never want that, and it will leave my mind forever."

I highly doubt that, but I realizing he is sacrificing something of himself for my happiness. If I tell him 'never', I know it will be 'never'.

"I don't know."

His voice is shocked and astounded. "You don't k—"

"Not now."

"Not _ever?_"

I finally look up at him, and he is looking at me so dramatically, looking at me as if he has never properly seen me before. "Not now." I repeat.

"Christine…" he murmurs.

"I should go to bed now." I say. I climb lightly out of his lap and to the door. "Goodnight, Erik."

He stares at me in wonder. "You…"

Erik and I are experts in abrupt dismissals. I blow him a kiss and disappear.

--


	14. Talk

--

It is too easy to lose track of days down here. With no way to tell if it is night or day besides Erik's quiet reminders, my steady tracking of the weeks begins to disperse into a whole jumble of time. I suspect I have been down here for over three months, but I cannot know for sure and for some reason, it annoys me. I approach Erik in the kitchen finally and ask, "Do you have a calendar?"

He looks at me as if that is the most bizarre thing he could ever have dreamed of me asking. "A calendar?"

"Yes." I say, frowning a little at his attitude. "I want to know the date."

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Why do you need to know?"

I do not know exactly why he seems so wary of everything I ask of him, as if they are all ploys that will eventually lead to my departure. I do not miss the tightness in his golden eyes, nor the tension throughout his lean body.

"Never mind, then." I sigh, resigned.

I must look more disappointed than I really feel, for he touches my wrist as I turn away. "I believe it is the tenth of May, darling." he says gently.

"Oh!" I say, receiving a shock I had not been expecting at all. Deciding too late that this would be information I best kept to myself, I say out loud, "Yesterday was my birthday!"

It really wasn't a big deal in any way. When I was with Papa, we were generally too poor for him to do anything other than play a special song for my birthday. Last year at the Opera, it literally went by unnoticed. I even have to think for a moment to determine how old I am.

An expression similar to the one that would appear if I told him I was dying came onto his wretched features. "Oh Christine, my angel! I am so sorry."

"It doesn't matter." I say truthfully. "It just surprised me."

"And poor Erik gave nothing to his wife."

"Oh, no Erik, that is _fine_, I didn't mean—"

"Nonsense! Husbands take care of their wives, dote upon them, do they not? We are no different! We are just like _everyone else_! And Erik will treat his wife. With what, with what… I know! Tonight we shall go up for a walk."

He looks so determined that I smile at his vigor. Just a little, so he isn't incensed. "Very well."

He touches my cheek affectionately and then exits.

True to his word, late after the time I would normally retire, he tells me it is time for our walk. I look straight into his eyes as he tells me this, the rest of his face covered by a mask.

I frown. "I _burned_ your mask."

"I have many more." he replies gravely.

"I'll burn them too." I mutter, and follow him out.

He takes my hand and it is gentle and loose, loose enough that I could pull away and be up the staircase before he had time to gather his senses.

Raoul's voice echoes in my head.

"_Why, when you were able to run away, did you go back to him?"_

"_Because I had to. And you will understand when I tell you how I left him."_

"_Oh, I hate him! Christine, tell me, do you hate him too?"_

"_No."_

How he terrified me, how he horrified me to no end! When we were not in our music, he ceased to become an angel and became a man, a man that scared me… I was safe, all that time, up on the rooftop with innocent Raoul, never being able to imagine myself where I am now with Erik. His living wife, and considering… well, not quite yet.

I tighten my hold on my husband's hand.

"Watch your step." Erik warns as we hit the cool air.

"It's so peaceful out here at night."

"Of course. It is Erik's favorite time of day."

"You can take your mask off." I offer, after looking around the alley. "It is dark. No one is around."

He noticeably tenses, staring straight ahead. "You cannot be sure of that. I will keep my mask on when I am in this world, Christine, and not my own. You cannot change that."

I pretend to pout until we reach a thick patch of trees. I wander over and sit in the middle while Erik watches with an amused eye. "Grass is so soft to sit on." I say. "Come here."

He sits next to me, his eyes glowing in the dark as he looks back and forth for passerby.

"Let's talk." I say dreamily. "You could tell me a story."

"Stories, stories." he murmurs. "Will you never tire of them?"

I glance at him, where he is still seemingly uptight, his nervous eyes still darting everywhere. I grimace and turn to sit right in front of him.

"You are not comfortable here. That is ridiculous. No one is here but me. Now, close your eyes."

After an extremely miffed expression, he does so.

I put my hands on the edges of his mask as if I am going to take it off, but I don't. I want him to trust me. "Imagine that's it's just you and me, alone at home. In your world, in our world, where no one else is possibly around us. You take off your mask because you know there is nothing to fear, not from me, not from your wife…"

My babbling becomes easier as I go on, my hands staying in that exact same place. As my voice dwindles away, he opens his eyes carefully. "Aren't you going to take it off?" I hear the impatience in his tone.

I move my fingers just enough for him to feel them. "Do you want me to?"

He stares at me with anger and amusement before settling on acceptance, murmuring, "You are very sly, my love…"

I take my hands away as he pulls his mask off. I sit there for a moment, looking at all the trees swaying slightly. "What are you seeing?" he asks curiously.

"Trees. Air. Light. Lots of things." I reply. "What do you see?"

His gaze never leaves me. "I see a young angel before me, caring for me with her love and voice. I see the pleasures of company and nature that have thus far been denied to me. I see millions of stars that have been wished on, all created and protected by God."

He surprises me. "You believe in God?"

I do not mean to sound so accusing, but I cannot picture Erik, my Erik in his living hell that he created, ever coming to terms with the Almighty Father.

He is quiet for a long moment. "Mankind was created by the devil, Christine. There was too much cruelty in all of them to assume anything else. And then…I met you. The devil could not even dream up someone as pure and good as you. Nothing less than angels created you, angels at the foot of God. How could I believe in anything else after you?"

I am speechless. "So…you could say that I… that I brought you to God?"

"That you saved my soul? Yes, you could say that."

I reach and take his hand, strong hope flickering in my heart. "You are not going to Hell?"

Erik laughs out loud. "God can hardly forgive me for what I've done when I've yet to forgive myself."

"God always loves us." I protest. "I need the thought of a love that is so powerful and always there, no matter what we do, no matter who we are." A love that would take me back, no matter what I had done to it.

His eyes shimmer. "Yes, it is very appealing, is it not?"

I hesitate. "There are rules one is expected to follow." He turns away, and I know he is thinking about all the murders, the curses, the lies. But I am thinking of something else. "Erik, are we really married?"

He furrows his brow. "_Yes_."

"I know." I reply absentmindedly. "But there was no… well, there was no priest."

Erik smiles. "But there was a God."

I lean against him as his hands comb through my hair. I wish we could stay this way forever. Erik is kind and gentle, not angry, and I am sure of myself and of my feelings when I am with him like this. "Thank you for telling me that you believe in God." I say softly.

He exhales. "I am by no means a religious person."

Without warning, I giggle.

He views me solemnly as I put my hand to my mouth. "Oh Erik, forgive me! It's just—I had to picture you at a Mass and—I cannot imagine—with all those people, you would be going _crazy—_"

I think I am overly exhausted, but I relax when I notice he is smiling too. "That would be quite out of the question, wouldn't it be?" he asks, and I nod like a little girl, my curls bobbing.

I sober quickly, wrapping my arms around my knees. "I think we should move. Live above ground."

Leave it to me to spoil his good mood. "No." he says curtly.

"Why not? I thought that was what you wanted. What you always wanted. To live above in the world with your wife, just like everybody else."

He stares at me darkly. "We are _not_ like everybody else."

"But earlier, you said we were—"

"I _wish_. And I try. But we are not. Do not _ever_ forget that, Christine."

I swallow. "I won't."

He pats my hand. I wish I could bring back his smile, his rare laughter. It's all I need in this dark world. A summer breeze blows around us, and I shiver. His hand pauses, and he very gently takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.

"Now _you _will be cold." I argue feebly, hoping not to anger him.

He laughs and moves his hand to my face so I can feel his icy skin. I kiss his fingertips very slowly.

He sighs.


	15. Locked

--

One morning, Erik locks me in my room. I try fruitlessly to coax him to open it for several minutes, but he downright refuses.

"Let me out, Erik!"

"I shall let you out in due course. But in the meantime, I must leave for a little while."

"I don't _want_ to be locked in here!" I cry, pounding on the door with my little fists. "You can leave, but let me out first! You know I will not leave; I promise not to escape!"

"Oh, my sweet, I know you will not leave me! That is not why I am locking you up."

"I am your wife! You cannot lock me up! Erik!"

I hear him sigh and leave.

I let out a shriek in frustration and go sit at my vanity. I brush my hair desperately, in a frenzied manner, until I have run off all my adrenaline. I look into my mirror at the unrecognizable woman before me.

_He doesn't trust me, he doesn't trust me, he doesn't trust me._

"I am a good wife, am I not?" I whisper brokenly to my mirror. All my life I have been afraid of being a cruel person, and life is definitely pushing me to my limits with Erik. I obey him. I love him. What is missing? Why can I not be a good wife?

_By all means, he is not a good husband… Look how he locks you up!_

No. I would stay with him either way. Where else would I go?

_He yells at you…_

Very little. Certainly much less than he would yell at anyone else! It is his temper, not me.

_He is a madman! He does not love!_

"He does too!" I say venomously to my mirror. I freeze, bringing my hand slowly to my face in shock, when I realize that I have just talked to myself, just as Erik had told me to. I am going crazy, after all! I am holding conversations with myself! Alone in this room, has Erik driven me to the brink of insanity?

I dissolve into peals of tears and laughter as I rise and dress.

I wonder if this is how Erik has felt his whole life. There is so much I do not know about him. Was he helpless his whole life, cut off from everyone else and unable to escape?

Escape, escape, escape. I tell myself I do not want to do it, and yet I dwell on it endlessly.

Poor Erik. I truly believe that he deserves a good wife to redeem him. If he had a good wife, he wouldn't be a bad man. What kind of wife am I? I am a horrible wife. A horrible wife who protects her bed and cringes when her husband touches her!

Papa would be ashamed of me. Papa loved everybody. Papa would have been able to see through Erik's face into a good soul. That is, if Erik did not throw something at him first or something of the sort.

Without a watch, I have no way of knowing how long I stay in my room, but it feels like most of the afternoon has passed when Erik knocks and opens my door.

"Christine?" he says anxiously, stepping into the room.

"I am here." I say dispassionately, leaning lazily on the corner of my vanity, where I have been lounging for quite some time. "You don't think I'd be anywhere else do you? Care to explain yourself?"

He comes over, pulls me upright, and wraps me in his arms.

I am still.

"Erik?" I question softly, my face in his bony shoulder.

"Now is not the time to ask questions, you understand?" he says breathlessly. "This is not the time for talking."

I pause, confused. "Is it time to sing?"

He gives a weak chuckle as his gloved hand knots itself into my curls. "No, I will not make you sing. I just want you here. Just here, with Erik."

I fall silent and let him hug me. I can feel his face against my hair, so unnaturally smooth when it looks so torn. His face bothers me less and less each day. I am finding that when he makes a big deal out of it, I notice it more; when he does not mention it at all, I scarcely even register it.

"Something is happening." he mumbles into the back of my neck. He is taking deep, unsteady breaths. "Alarms go off this morning and there is no one there. Erik knows, for he checked everywhere. What should I do? I cannot leave you alone now. Not if there is someone out there. I must protect you… you belong to me, and I will keep you safe."

"Can they get in?" I ask fearfully.

He shakes his head. "Erik's home is locked to all whom he wishes it to be locked to. No one can get in. But if you go out…"

I understand instantly who Erik thinks this visitor is. I did not think Raoul would be stupid enough to come back, not after whatever Erik had down to him to scare him away. Yet, I knew Raoul would never surrender until he believed I was safe. All he wanted was my happiness and serenity. Was there any way to convince him that I had found it with Erik?

No. There was not.

Does Erik really think that I would go out to Raoul and allow myself to be taken again?

I am a little impatient. "I do not want to hide."

Erik pulls back. "Hiding is not so bad." he tells me sadly. "One gets used to it after a while."

I do not acknowledge his words. Instead, I take his hands. "You could let me go out there."

He looks severely unhappy about that. "No."

"Why not?" I demand. "I will go out and explain to Raoul that I am happy here. I will get it through to him so he will leave us alone."

Erik blinks, his breathing becoming raspy and uncertain as he presses his fingers into the palms of my hands. "He wouldn't believe you! I wouldn't believe you!"

"Silly Erik." I sigh. "If I tell him alone, I think he can believe me."

"You would lie to him."

"Saying I am happy here? That is no lie."

"If you had the chance to go back and stay with your boy," he says hesitatingly. "Would you do it?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I—no."

"That cannot be true!" he cries. "You wanted to run off with him, simply to get away from _me_! Up on the rooftop, you loved him! And you despised me!"

"I would have chosen Raoul then, yes. But I would choose you now. I'm glad that I did."

"_You despise me!_"

"Why can you not believe me?" I moan. "I am just as confused as you are to as exactly why I love you, but I do! You fight me every step of the way, and I don't know what else to do!"

I press myself against him and kiss his face, again and again and again. "Say I don't love you now, Erik! Think of every kiss, of every touch, of every song, and explain to me how in God's name I could not love you after all that we've been through!"

He is remarkably composed through my emotional turmoil. "Because I cannot believe you if it's not true." he whispers. "_Tell_ me it's true. _Show _me it's true."

I have already sealed my destiny. "I chose you because of Raoul. I stayed because of me. I fell in love with you because of_ you_."

"You do love me." he murmurs. "Sometimes I can see it in your eyes… your lovely, blue eyes…"

I rest my head against him and his hands fall naturally at my waist.

"Say something." he instructs me suddenly. "Tell me something. Anything. Find something to talk about."

He pushes me away and I clutch my arms around empty air. He does not look at me.

"I—I dropped a towel in the sink yesterday." I ramble, baffled by his emotions, but knowing not to question them. "And I cleaned off all the old newspapers. Lots of them. What do you do with them, anyway? There are so many and I—"

I break off with an exaggerated cry. "Oh! I have been forgetting! It bothers me every night." I go over to my drawer and pull out the newspaper I had saved several weeks ago. "I found this and it just caught my attention. It will drive me crazy until you say it's not talking to you."

Erik doesn't want to take the paper. He appears to be only interested in me. He takes his hand and runs it down my curls, all the way to my waist. I let him. His hand is over the fabric and it is impossible to tell the temperature of his hand. I cannot look at him in the eyes because my face is turning crimson for reasons unbeknownst to me. I feel physically drawn to him.

That is even more confusing, as Erik's physical appearance is not pleasing in any way, and yet, it is still mine. Erik is solid and dependable, unruly and capricious, and yet utterly and completely mine. I belong to him and he belongs to me. To share such a level of intimacy with someone—no wonder I was blushing!

Erik reaches and captures a kiss before saying abruptly, "No one is out there. No one at all."

He leans down and picks up the paper that had fallen from my hands to the floor. I show him the article. "What does this say?"

His face changes as he reads it, from anger, to absolute sorrow, back to complete rage. He begins to laugh hysterically.

Here it is again. The violent changing of moods, which always seems to be my fault.

"You would not dare!" he cries. He looks at me with flaming eyes. "You _knew_. You knew. You had to! _Why_ did you hide this from me?"

"I didn't hide it!" I argue, stepping away. "I don't know what it means! That's why I was asking you! I kept forgetting—"

He grabs my shoulders. "Foolish child! You have no idea! You don't know what you've—"

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and breaks off, leaving the room. I stand still for a moment, terrified and teetering, and then follow him into the main room. He has his mask on.

"Don't go!" I plead.

He comes and kisses me, and he feels possessive, demanding. I stiffen involuntarily, caught off-guard by his manner.

"Everything has changed." he gasps. "Back in your room. I must lock you in again!"

"No!" I say sharply, twisting away. His bony hand closes around my arm and I know that I am not getting away. "At _least_ let me stay in the drawing room!"

My arm hurts. He still doesn't trust me, he still locks me up.

"You don't love me." I whisper, my eyes filling with tears.

He throws me into the room with a harsh cry and a second later he is over me, bringing me up carefully, kissing my lips. I kiss him back. I am drifting away… the least he can do is put me on my bed… Why can we not just be normal? Why is all this happening to _me_...?

He seems to read my mind as he lifts up my limp form and tucks me under the sheets. "I told you, it is not you I do not trust." he says in my ear. "Rest, my wife. I may be gone a long time—"

I kiss him again and again and I am crying and he is too.

"Stay here, Christine." he orders and he lets go of me with one last, lingering look.

I watch mournfully as my dark phantom opens the door and vanishes. All of that, to be over in under thirty seconds.

"Where else would I go?" I whisper.

--


	16. Trust

--

For the rest of the evening, I wander aimlessly, cleaning the drawing room where Erik's compositions are scattered. I pick them up carefully, knowing that if I smear them, he will be very, very unhappy.

I have become quite the maid around here. I never before realized that when Erik is not here, there is so little to do here. There are no acquaintances you can invite over for tea; there are no adventures or no places you can explore; there are no changes in any way, shape, or form.

As I pass his bedroom, I see music strewn around in that room as well, but I know better than to touch anything in Erik's room.

Out of the confinement of my own room, I feel much calmer. I want to wait patiently for my husband to return, but—he said he may be gone a long time. When I am quite exhausted, I opt to sleep on the couch in the drawing room rather than go back into my small room.

When I wake, I am disoriented; I do not know where I am or how long I have been sleeping—Erik forgot to leave me with his pocket watch again. I sit up carefully on the couch. I had been half expecting to be back in my own bed, courtesy of Erik, who would have put me in there as soon as he arrived home. I come to the conclusion that he is still not here.

Wait one moment. How long have I been sleeping?

I panic over the most trivial things, including time. Have I only been sleeping for a couple of minutes? Is it perhaps morning? Could it be next afternoon? Heavy sleeper that I was, I could not figure out how rested I felt, not with my anxiety coming in forceful waves against my heart.

Erik is not back.

I have the strangest sense of déjà vu as I walk around the little apartment, calling for him. This is ridiculous; if I have only been asleep for a short while, then of course he wouldn't be back.

Is it nighttime? Is it morning? _What did I do_?

I have already cleaned! I have already sung! I have read every book on Erik's shelves, including the ones I couldn't understand!

I needed to get out. Not out, in the sense of, away from Erik, but someplace freer. Someplace where I could open windows and see the time of day.

I have mastered the art of boredom.

Hours go by? Minutes? Possibly days? I talk aloud, simply for the sake of hearing noises in this dungeon.

"I wonder where you are, Erik." I say quietly. "I wonder what it is about me that you do not trust. Is it fear of me running away? I don't think so. What are you afraid of? What frightens a man who holds the universe of darkness in his very hand? I wish you'd been granted love earlier, Erik, by someone better than me. But I'm here now, and I will live up to my duties. No woman will ever love you but me, you understand? Oh, how horrible! Do you want any other woman besides me? No, of course not, so perhaps it is not so horrible in the end. You have me, right? That's all you've ever wanted."

I sound like I'm trying to convince myself. I imagine Erik's reaction if I ever became brave enough to tell him all my innermost thoughts in person. Would he laugh and say, "Nonsense! No need to worry about Erik. Erik has you, and that's all he needs!"? Or would he begin to cry and shake, begging me to stop treating him so—kindly?

I am interrupted when the door slams.

Such wonderful relief floods through me. Yes, I love him and I'm glad he's home. Without Erik, it is not Erik's home and I want out. But Erik is back and I am Erik's; hence, I belong in Erik's home.

_Don't be angry again_, I think to myself.

"Damnit!" I hear very quietly, and my heart sinks. I wish he was happy… why can't I make him happy? The lights have been neglected, but they still cast enough light for me to see Erik's shadow as he relights them. "Fool!" he murmurs again.

"Who, Raoul?" I ask as quietly as I can, and as soon as it's out, I wish that I could take it back.

He doesn't even seem to notice. He turns, his mask still on. "What are you doing out here?" he demands. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Oh, so it is nighttime, then?" I ask.

He looks as though I am mocking him, and his yellow eyes grow even angrier.

It's a shame I didn't notice the second he came in, or I would have escaped to my room already.

Erik is furious.

I blink rapidly. "Is… is everything alright?"

He doesn't_ sound_ furious… he sounds quite sane and calculating, as though he is really thinking about his words. His eyes tell a different story, however, and if anyone's voice can be deceiving, it would be Erik's.

"Splendid, darling." he says. "Now tell me, why aren't you in your room? You shouldn't be out here. You could have very easily gotten away."

I narrow my eyes. "Erik, you tell me what is going on right this instant!"

For a moment, he looks surprised. He recovers quickly. "What could possibly be going on?"

"You lock me in my room all day without a word of explanation! Then you read something in a foreign language without telling me what is says, and then disappear again! Now I've been alone forever and you were gone so long, and I was… worried." I drop my voice to a definite whisper at the end.

He gives me a look that is either condescending or exasperated—or maybe both. "Christine, I've only been gone for an hour."

I wrinkle my nose. "Will you just tell me what time it is! Do you have any idea how strange it is for me not knowing?"

"Dates, times," Erik says airily. "It's wonderful to think I have not crushed all of the curiosity out of you—"

"Erik!"

"Calmest, my little love. It is only eight."

I fall onto the couch with an overdramatic sigh. Erik's bony hand lays on my shoulder and tries to guide me up. Pulling away from him, I see a fleeting image of his crumpled face under his mask in my head. I moan as the guilt washes through me and I turn to put my arms around him, show him some love like a proper wife, but he is a few steps ahead of me already, trying to pull me into my room.

"I did it explain it to you." he says suddenly. "I told you that there was someone outside. I had to lock you in for your safety. Do you remember?"

Yes. He did explain.

I already feel too trudged down to apologize, so I reach for his hand. He is, however, in the chair next to my bed, gesturing me to lay down. "Perhaps you would like me to sing to you tonight?"

I look sadly around at my room. "Back in here again." I sigh heavily.

"Christine, Christine!" Erik moans, and I look over in shock at him. "Forgive Erik! He does not want to be your captor. It was so very wrong of him to lock you up! He is just so afraid. Afraid of losing you. Yes, Erik is afraid! And are you afraid of Erik?"

I shake my head. I climb into my bed. "Come closer, where I can hear you better."

He slides onto the floor and kneels next to my bed. I reach out and grip his hands very tightly, as if I am trying to squeeze some warmth into them.

"Nothing to be afraid of." I tell him in a motherly voice, taking off his mask and putting in on the table next to me.

He kisses me and his hands feel too pushy, too grasping, so I pull away. He turns repentant instantly.

"I apologize." he mutters darkly. I look at him, unable to not admire the way he is asking forgiveness, when I couldn't even bring myself to look at him after I had pulled away in the main room. I sit still for a moment and then lean back into him, pressing myself against him.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and I can hear his surprise… and his apprehension. I have never been the one to voluntarily push myself so eagerly against him. Usually he is the one pulling me to him; something I do not object, but still—it is different when I realize that I was the first to act upon it.

"Wives shouldn't pull away from their husbands." I whisper, my fingers curling uneasily around his back.

Erik tries to lean away. Too bad that I had already suspected that leaning away would be his next course of action, and my fingers are laced tightly behind his back, acting as a net to catch him.

"Oh, no, Christine. Wives pull away from their husbands when their husbands are being improper."

The words 'husband' and 'improper' are not two words one generally hear together in a non-derogatory sense.

"Proper?" I repeat slowly. "I did a lot of thinking today." I add.

"About?"

I am caught off-guard. I thought he would reply with some sarcastic comment; I didn't think I would actually have to explain. I am silent.

"Us." I say finally.

"You are a good wife." he says, and I wonder if he can read minds. I really would not be surprised.

"Really?" I ask miserably.

"Oh, yes! Dare you doubt it?"

"No, but you doubt my love for you."

He brings his hands to my neck and begins kissing me again, the way he did that one day in the drawing room, the way he did on the couch.

Yes, I turn coward again, my body language clearly requesting that he stop, whispering refusals just as before. Once married, husbands should be permitted to do anything to their wives, but I have Erik's word that he will do nothing until I initiate it, and I trust Erik's word more than anything else.

Erik will never come to me. I must go to him.

Now? No! I am not ready. I am not ready to be that good of a wife yet. Heaven help me, I am a hypocrite! I want to be a good wife, and this is what I do?

Erik, Erik, tell me what to do!

It happened so fast that it was very surreal; one moment, I was thinking of guilt, and then I was acting on it—I reached up and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

You see, I just needed him to know that I was supposed to be his wife. Isn't that what he wanted? I had tried to be his student, and he had wanted more… Was I ready to give it to him?

Erik was up and on the other side of the room so fast that I believed he was nothing more than a blur. I sit up, my head spinning and I think I am about to be sick.

"_You_—" he growls. "How dare you…You _ridiculous _child, you_ rotten _girl_—"_

I hang my head.

Acting on guilt? Not love?

He is whispering curses at me, and I hear tears in his voice. I am cruel. He is crueler. He straightens up with difficulty and leaves my room, slamming the door.

I screw up my eyes and cover my ears when I hear his organ start. I do not want to hear it now, I do not want to hear it ever.

His mask is still lying on the floor.

I knew that I would never forget this night. A loss of trust between us, or a deeper knowledge of the truth?

It is the last time I will cry for many months.


	17. Acceptance

--

I expect him to be cool towards me the next morning, perhaps still angry, perhaps hiding. What I do not expect it for him to greet me with a little red flower and a kiss, and then lead me into the drawing room to sing the whole morning.

But that is what he does.

He speaks quite amiably to me, his movements gentle and his words kind; I study him carefully. By the end of the morning, I have picked up on the fact that although he is being sweet, he has not yet touched me…

I kiss him after lunch and he kisses me back, but it's lacking… something. I am not bold enough to actually ask him about it, but I notice how quickly he pulls away.

Needless to say, by the day's end, it has annoyed me.

I want him to read me a story, but he refuses. I ask him to play a song for me, and he says later. My feelings are hurt. I thought I was the center of his world? Does he have more important things to do than be with me?

I ask him to lay down with me that night. That would be all, I swore to him! I just wanted him _there_. He declined. The same thing happens the next night.

I feel a little devious. So that is how he is going to play, is it? He _rejects_ me and then tries to make up for it. If I am going to plan my seduction, than I have learned that I should not take him by surprise.

It is terribly humiliating to me! Even though I am a woman, I am very naive. I do not know what I am expecting, and I do not know what I am doing. Will this be something I will regret? I am his wife, and it is unlikely to change. Why postpone the inevitable? I do not dwell upon it, but every now and then, I find myself thinking of it.

So at dinner, I ask, "Why did you pull away?"

I must give him points on the art of self control. He considers the question as if I am asking him how the weather is.

"Because." he answers.

I wait and glare at him. He looks at me innocently. He does not seem mad or perturbed in any way.

"Because?"

"Yes. Because."

I let out a mighty huff. "That is not an answer. I want to know why you pulled away. Am I not your wife?"

Erik looks ruffled. "This is not an appropriate conversation." I have the feeling that he is mocking me.

"We are _married_."

"Oh, my dear, you are not really trying to talk _me_ into it, are you?"

I pause, wrinkling my nose. "I said… I said someday, didn't I?"

He peers at me. "And I do not believe that day has arrived." He stands up. "Christine, you cannot even begin to understand… you are too young. I did a very great wrong. I forced you to marry _me_. A wife is all that I ask for. You."

My mouth hangs open. "Erik, you do realize that almost everything that comes out of your mouth is a contradiction to something you have earlier said to me?"

He chuckles. "I suppose sometimes I see my mistakes too late, no?"

And we say no more about it.

But one day passes, and then another. And I realize, with the absence of him holding me, wrapping his arms around me, his cool lips—they are all things that I begin to miss. Erik is my rock, and I need him.

But he, apparently, does not need me.

I _love_ him.

It is a shame I am realizing all these things now. How Erik and I have emotionally grown, how he are barely the two people who held hands in the drawing room and cried on their wedding day.

I am in my bed one night when Erik knocks and enters. "Christine?"

I shift. "I am awake, Erik."

He comes and sits on his chair. "You seemed tired today. Are you well?"

I sit up, surprised. "Yes." I say, thinking aloud. Why had he thought I was tired today? Had I sighed, or perhaps sat down while doing something? Not that I recalled.

"I was just making sure."

I smile warmly at him. "Thank you for your concern, then. But I am really fine."

"Good." he murmurs. His hands have begun to wrap tightly around the armrest. He notices me watching and quickly takes them away.

"Will you come lay down with me tonight?" I ask, but I lack any conviction in my words. I already can tell that his answer will be _no_.

He is silent. He slowly nods.

I hide my shock, afraid that it might scare him off, and move over slightly, He lies on the very end. I wait for a moment, and then move back to my place and touch his hand.

"Thank you." I say gratefully. He stares at me with soft eyes and touches my hair.

It is a sweet moment.

I should have kept my mouth shut—I always ruin these moments, why can I not learn!—but I say, very quietly, "You pulled away from me."

His eyes are sincere. He believes what he is saying. "You did not know what you were doing."

I pull my lips into a pout, just a little. "Yes, I did."

"Then I must worry about your tastes, my darling."

"You said—"

He puts one finger over my mouth. "I say foolish things in my anger, Christine. I say foolish things when I am around you. I must keep my temper; I must hold my tongue."

I look down at my pillow. "I just wanted to know why."

For the first time, his voice grows a little sharp. "Why? What would you do? Do you have any idea what it's like to be touched by _no one_ your whole life? Even your mother can't bear to touch you—can't bear to _look_ at you!—and I've dealt with it my whole life! You being here, around me, is enough. Your kisses, are enough, too much. How would I handle that." His voice grows soft again and he leans closer to my face. "Can you not understand my fear?"

He leans back and answers his own question. "Of course not! You have no idea. So Erik must protect you! He knows you make poor decisions. He will not let you make a poor decision."

"You scared me." I say.

He looks at me with pity. "Erik hates to frighten his poor Christine."

I kiss him, and I can tell he doesn't like it, and it makes him nervous. I ignore it. This is my decision now, and I, for one, do not contradict myself.

This is my next big decision. Has Erik not realized how well I've mastered the art of making up my mind?

"Look, Christine," he murmurs. He takes his hand and presses it against mine. "I am a monster! I am Death himself! You do not want this!"

I keep kissing him, and then whisper, "Take off your mask."

This is what is happening now. I hear him crying, only for a moment, as we both understand where we are heading. I am afraid, but I am even more afraid to admit it. This is a different world than where everyone else is. Here, in Erik's lair, things are dark and different, and there are no rules. Is this _my_ life? Is this where I was meant to be? Dear Raoul, he is above in the real world, his senses untainted and untouched by this fantasy.

Erik's hands are so cold, and they are everywhere.

I hide my face in his shoulder so he cannot see my terror. It doesn't matter. He knows anyway.

"My Christine," he whispers brokenly. "Stop Erik! Tell him to stop!"

I shake my head, his hands wrapped around my waist, pulling me to him. He is kissing me, and he is unbearably gentle. Every second that goes by takes us farther and farther away from the life we've built down here. Everything was perfect. Why do I understand everything too late?

His fingers pull at the tassels of my dress. I am so frightened, so frightened. We are too close, we have gone too far together, and for the first time, I know there is no angel of music. There is Erik, and there is me. That is all we are right now.

And I have no idea who we will be in the morning.

--


	18. A Moment of Honesty

--

When I open my eyes the next morning, I expect to feel different.

I feel heavier, as if my arms and legs have gained a great deal of weight in a short time, and I feel cold, as if somebody who was lying next to me recently disappeared.

It happened.

I push back the covers and sit up, alone, in my bed. The lights are turned up, and it feels like morning. When I move, I'm sore; but it didn't seem as bad as all the horror stories I'd heard up at the Opera.

It still happened.

I pull the sheets up to my face and cry.

It's not that I am upset about the outcome of things—quite the contrary, actually: I am glad about what happened. Yet, I feel so much _older,_ so much more mature than what I think I ought to. Maybe I have just been babied for too long. It's simply an emotional step that I dared to take, and now I needed a moment to think about my actions.

I wasn't sorry about it one bit. And in the end, I never shed a single tear, so I suppose it wasn't really crying. I was just gathering myself. I had given in, and I was ecstatic about it. But also shaky.

_Where is Erik?_

He is obviously not in here. I thought he would want to be in here, to watch me sleep, to see me when I woke up. Did I displease him? Was he angry about what I did?

How could he possibly be angry? He wanted me, and I allowed it. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

I stand up, moving gingerly over to the closet to dress. I ought to look good for Erik, shouldn't I? I pull on a pale, pink gown that he has complimented me on many times; I once remarked that he couldn't keep his hands off me when I wore it. I had blushed after I said that, and I remember him staring at me with confusion, while I stood there awkwardly.

I feel another uncomfortable sense when I think about going out to face him. What did I say to him? Did I act like I always had, or was I supposed to go over and give him an extra kiss? Would he ignore me? Would he cry? Would he act oblivious and make me sing?

I go to my door and try to listen to see if he is composing. I put my ear against the wood and become very still.

I hear voices.

I pull back, frowning. I didn't think Erik would talk to himself _that_ loudly. There is a brief silence, and another voice picks up, and I know for sure that it does not belong to Erik.

It belongs to Raoul.

I back away from the door, leaning against my bed, my bed with the stained sheet, my bed where my living, breathing husband had laid beside me, and I panic.

Somehow, somebody has found their way to the house on the lake.

Finding Erik's house bodes ill for anyone and everyone who has the misfortune to stumble across it. The person will not find themselves alive for much longer.

_Raoul, you fool!_

Must I continue to save him? I realize now, that each time he has come for a rescue, I am the one who protects him, bargains with Erik. He is doing harm to us all.

Why did he come? I had done the ultimate act last night to complete my _marriage_—and Raoul could destroy it all!

Why would Erik let Raoul in? He wouldn't. _He would never let Raoul in._

I lean against the door, for proof that is really Raoul's voice, and not just my deluded senses, but all the voices have stopped.

Well. I will hardly get anywhere standing in my room, staring at the door handle, so I fearlessly open the door and head straight toward the drawing room.

The door here is closed as well, which explains why I had such difficulty hearing the voices. I linger for a moment, wondering how angry Erik will be if I intrude. Surely not very angry if I can get him to recall last night…

I knock on the door.

There is still silence, and for a moment, I wonder if the whole thing was perhaps a dream.

Until the door swings open and Raoul stands there, quivering with suppressed excitement.

"_Christine!"_ he cries, and he pulls me into the room, his arms around me, his lips on my ear. "Thank God, thank God," he keeps murmuring. He feels so warm, and it's unnerving to me. And I don't like it.

"Christine, you're safe!" he whispers, stepping back, his hands on my shoulders as he looks into my eyes. "I have come for you, like I promised…"

He looks bothered by my lack of reaction, but I am looking over his shoulder, where I have realized that there are _two_ more people in the room.

One is Erik, who will not look at me. I stare at him for a full five seconds, and he looks pointedly at the floor. The other is _him_, the Persian whom Erik calls _Daroga_, the one who suffered through the torture chamber with Raoul.

Unlike my husband, the Daroga is staring at me full in the face. His expression is rather blank. He turns and gives Erik a look I cannot read.

"I suppose you wouldn't mind if I asked the girl herself, would you, Erik?" he asks, and his tone is polite. Erik gives a little shrug, and faces the wall.

I want to watch Erik forever, but the Daroga is approaching me very slowly, his hands held out. I give him a quizzical stare, and Raoul tightens his hold on me.

"Mam'selle Daae." he says deeply. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you alive and healthy."

I struggle against Raoul's grip so I can face the man properly, but Raoul is reluctant to let me go, so I compromise by holding his hand. It is still too warm. And I still don't like it.

"Of course I am alive and healthy." I answer, frowning a little. "Why would I be otherwise?"

I see Erik give a visible twitch when I speak, and I can tell he's closed his eyes.

"Christine, I worried about you every second." Raoul muttered. "You made me promise to take you away, and I will live for my one promise."

"Raoul," I begin, but the Daroga interrupts me.

"Christine, we are here to bring you back to your world, if you wish." he says. "Erik has agreed; you are free to go if it is what you want."

I give Erik's back a little glare.

"I am quite happy here." I say. "I don't want to leave."

Both men give me exasperated looks that are both scolding and pitying at the same time.

"Come here, Christine." the Daroga offers suddenly, and he takes my hand and pulls me towards the door. "Let go of her." he orders Raoul, and he closes the drawing room door in his face.

"You really shouldn't leave them alone together…" I start. The Daroga fixes me with a kind and honest stare.

"I am sorry for everything that has happened concerning you and Erik." He makes a little grimace. "I cannot change what has transpired, and I cannot forget it. You recall I was here when Erik forced you to make a decision, forced you to marry him. I heard your pain, I heard your tears, and I know how he frightens you. Raoul is here to keep you safe. He is remarkably brave, and he has given up an expedition to the North Pole for you. I want you to go away with him, somewhere far away, and I will deal with Erik alone here."

I blink a few times. "Monsieur, I am not lying when I say I want to stay with Erik. I am his wife."

"No," he murmurs. "Whatever he has told you, it is not marriage. You were not married by the church, or the clergy."

"God heard." I say, smiling a little at my irony.

The Daroga looks at me with a worried expression, as if he is concerned about what I could possibly be smiling about.

"I had to learn to love him." I say slowly. "I thought I would be trapped down here forever. So I did. And now I cannot leave him."

"My poor, child," he moans. "This is so wrong! He had no right!"

I take his hand. It is warm too, but gentle. "I was frightened of him. I still am. _But Erik owns my soul."_

The Daroga has lost his look of alarm and has settled on looking completely hopeless.

"I love him. I do. How can I go back to Raoul, after four months down here? You say you want to bring me up to my world? This _is_ my world now. I need Erik. He needs me. You don't understand."

I push past him, back into the drawing room. He grabs my arm and pulls me back to look at him with careful force. "Tell me the truth once, and I will never ask again: Do you really love Erik?"

I nod. "Yes."

"You know what he's done? You know he is unstable?"

I nod again. "That is why he needs me, you see."

"But you have needs too," he protests. "Light, and air, and love."

"Erik gives me all of that." I reply calmly. "We go for walks quite often."

His hand drapes off my arm in a gesture of defeat. "He may have stolen you soul, but that does not mean you have to give him your heart." he whispers unhappily.

"But I have." I say. "I have given him everything. Because I love him. And it is not easy, sometimes. He has quite the temper! But that makes it all the more fulfilling, don't you understand? I have taught him to love, just as he has taught me to sing. He is my angel of music. I cannot let go of him. I need him. I _want _him. I love him. I will not give up on him now, because he would never give up on me."

The Daroga has a new look in his eyes, almost like respect. But then it disappears as he leads me back into the drawing room.

Raoul's welcome is overly jubilant, and he pulls me in for a kiss.

His lips are warm again.

How I hate it! Is there something wrong with me?

I wish Erik would turn around, so I can give him a reassuring glance; I wish he would turn around so he can give me some sort of look that last night really did happen and he felt our connection as much as I did; I wish he would turn around so I could see his golden eyes and be reminded of how much I am loved.

Instead, Raoul steps in front of me, and whispers, "There are many things I need to say to you, and they are not for others' ears. Come, my Lotte."

He takes me out of the room, just like the Daroga did. Erik remains staring at the wall.

But at the very last moment, before the door swings closed, he turns and gives me a look that says he remembers last night, and he remembers all my promises; he remembers how many times I've told him I loved him, how many times I've kissed his scarred face; he remembers every second we've spent together and every step we've achieved in our relationship.

As the door slams shut, and he watches me depart with Raoul to the other room, his eyes tell me that he remembers it all—and he still expects to never see me again.

--


	19. Sharp Words

--

It wasn't until after Raoul turned and faced me in the main room that I realized that this could not turn into anything good.

He tries to start, but I interrupt.

"This is my house, and you don't lead me out of my own drawing room." I say. "Is there really something you have to say that cannot be said in front of my husband?"

Raoul looks a little scandalized, but he begins to rattle off a speech that sounds as though it has been articulately memorized.

"I failed you, Christine, and I'm sorry, but I can make it right. This whole nightmare can be over, I promise, and I can take you far away where we can forget about everything. I've waited my whole life for you, ever since we were little children, and I _won't give up on you now_."

I stare at him for a moment. "That's very nice, Raoul, but the nightmare _is_ over. I'm happy with Erik."

He closes his eyes. "I was afraid of this." he says. "You told me to take you away, regardless of what you said. Even if I drag you kicking and screaming, you'll thank me someday."

I consider this. "No, I wouldn't."

"Once, you wanted to run away with me."

"That was a long time ago." I explain. "Before I understood my love for Erik."

Raoul brings his hand up to his face. I think he is actually crying.

The worst thing for me is that I remember how I used to love him. I remember being able to look at him and know that I loved him; I remembered the feeling, but I couldn't quite get it back.

Raoul was my whole childhood, but Erik was my life _now._ I am not heartless, but I cannot love Raoul anymore. I don't. I love Erik—but that doesn't mean I suddenly have no feelings about Raoul. He is still my friend, and still a connection with my father. Papa had loved Raoul, and would never want me to give anything less than the truth to him.

"I promised to take you away no matter what!"

I stand my ground. "I am staying right here."

"What has he done to you?"

"Erik gave me music." I answer. "Erik gave me love. How I was afraid of him, when he wept at my feet! But he will not do that anymore. He will not do that, because he trusts me to accept his love. I have earned his trust, as he has earned mine—"

"You said he horrified you!"

"And I said I loved you!" I burst out. "But feelings that are founded on fear and dreams do not last, Raoul!"

He steps forward, his expression jarringly similar to the Daroga's as we approached the end of our conversation. "Think of all the things you said to me!"

I don't answer; I hear Erik's voice in the drawing room, and I pause, attempting to pick it out. I listen vainly for a moment, and then turn back to Raoul. "I need to go back in."

"He said you could go." Raoul says dazedly.

I sniff. "Erik is a little overdramatic. I'm not going anywhere. He knows that."

At least, I _think_ he knows that…

"He's not human. He's not a man."

"He is. I love him."

Raoul heaves a heavy sigh. He cannot fight me much longer. Being contradicted continuously grates on raw nerves, I can confirm that.

"You don't have to do this." he says stubbornly. "Would your father have wanted this for you?"

I give him a firm stare. "My father would want me to make my own choices and stick with them."

He laughs like a hyena. "Christine, Christine! How you've changed!" I turn away from him, lifting up my skirts and going to the door. "It's like I don't know you anymore!"

"You don't." I say softly. "I know I've changed. And so have you. We all do."

"Don't give that to me!" Raoul spits, crossing his arms. "You played with us both! You couldn't decide who you wanted to hurt more!"

I cannot find anything to say to him. He's right; I did hurt them both. Now I was through making amends, and I was going on with my life. The life I was prepared to build with Erik.

Horrible Erik, a murderer and a liar, a magician and master, who had claimed first my soul, and then my heart. What chance had Raoul ever had? All I had needed, all along, was to give Erik that chance of love. I had given Raoul the chance, and I was never satisfied. Now, I want to stay with Erik forever while I exchange a farewell with my first love and my truest friend.

Raoul, who had never gotten beyond a shy kiss, who didn't have the capacity to control me as Erik once did. I turned and gave him a great hug while he stood still beneath me.

"I shall die if you don't come with me!" he says flatly. "I will surely perish!"

"If you do _anything_ to intentionally harm yourself, you are a very great fool." I scold.

"My heart is broken."

"I'm sorry." I say, and I mean it. I am sorry. Raoul is getting the worst deal. But Erik deserves the most. "Go to the North Pole." I suggest. "Come back someday and check on me. If I am not happy, then we'll talk. But I will be, and you can go and find a suitable wife to marry."

He looks at me sadly. "I can never imagine… all my life, I have dreamed of _you_…"

I need to be strong, for Raoul. If I hesitate, he will grow more determined to carry me away. I press my lips together and shake my head. "And you always knew it could not be."

I should be proud of myself. I should feel triumphant for my victory. But all I feel is empty. I gained no pleasure from hurting Raoul.

I push open the door in the drawing room and hold it open for Raoul. He shakes his head, and looks at his feet.

"I'll wait out here." he says. I glance at him suspiciously, but he goes and settles himself on the couch. I close the door, but do not latch it. I wait for a moment, and sure enough, Raoul appears in the doorway. I give him a little smile, and then turn back.

The Daroga looks at me. "You should at least go back up." he says. "Go back up to Paris. Erik will get you both a flat, will he not?"

I throw a stare at my husband, who is looking at the ceiling. "Maybe." he says finally.

The Daroga comes and kisses my hand. "I trust you, Christine." he says.

I try to look as reassuring as I can.

"For God's sakes, he's put her under a spell!" Raoul cries suddenly, looking desperately at the Daroga. "You promised me that I could make her safe!"

"I promised you her safety." the darker man said in a deep tone, flicking a glance to Erik.

"With him?" Raoul ranted. "He tried to blow us all up!"

I stiffen, giving Raoul a very disapproving look. I try to give Erik a nicer look, but – damnit!—he is still not looking at me!

Raoul points an accusing finger. "I will not leave my fiancée with him!"

"I am no longer your fiancée."

"Oh, because he forced you to _marry _him, I remember. Marry him or die, wasn't it?"

I am beginning to fear for Raoul's life. I go and stand next to Erik. "I married him out of my own free will. You can clearly see that if I wanted to leave, I would have taken one of the ample opportunities and left. I am still here for a reason. "

"Time to go," the Daroga is muttering to Raoul. I reach out and take Erik's hand. He doesn't pull away, but stands unnaturally straight, his icy fingers wrapped comfortingly around mine. There is so much I need to say to him, so much this morning should have been… If I could somehow transport all my feelings into him through my hand, I would do it. I would tell him I love him for all his imperfections, for the way his clumsy hands shuddered in mine last night, for the way he keeps his dignity even in situations like these.

I want Raoul to leave, so I can say these things.

"You are a fickle woman." Raoul says. "I loved you! And now you love _him_? He's a monster! He doesn't love you! And perhaps you are a fool for defending him. A creature who can offer you nothing and who will never be loved, despite what you say to him!"

I take a sharp breath in, fury rising in me like never before as Erik's hand twitches in mine. A tidal wave of unadultered anger sweeps over me as I realize that there is nothing I can do to take back the words Erik was just forced to listen to, as I welcome the sorrow that drowns me as Raoul doubts not only my word, but my _love_.

Something I had once given to him. How silly.

The bolt of lightning surges through me as I take a threatening step.

"Get out of my house."

Erik reaches forward and tries to take me gently around the waist, and I feel his hands shaking. Raoul squeezes his eyes shut. "Christine, I love you, I never meant to call you—"

"Go away!"

The Daroga says something in a strange language, looking behind me, and pulls Raoul out the door as my one friend shouts apologies and declarations of his devotion.

Panting a little, I reflect. Raoul often says things he does not mean, and I can get over them; but Erik cannot.

I turn back to him, and Erik looks at the ground. "I told them you could leave. And you stayed."

"_Of course_ I stayed, Erik." I whisper. I can say nothing more, as I too, look at the ground.

How curious our situation is. He is shy. What is he thinking?

He looks into my eyes, eyes that are not angry or hurt, and takes off his mask and drops it on the floor. I go to him and bury my face in his jacket, wrapping my arms around him. I am loved here, I know. 

I can look forward to something. I lean up and kiss his face, starting with his forehead, and ending with his lips.

"Oh, Christine." Erik sighs, and he puts his arms around me and presses me close. "Oh, Christine."

--


	20. Another Moment

--

All that night, Erik would not speak one word to me. It wasn't an angry silence I felt, but rather a thoughtful silence. I thought it best not the disturb him.

After an hour or so of him keeping a stony silence to each and every one of my comments or questions, I gave up and we spent a silent evening. That night, he went into his room and began composing. I went to sleep in my own bed, alone.

I lay very still in the bed, and I can imagine him being beside me. It had been so very quick, and yet it had lasted forever. Would I ever get that moment back?

The next morning, he woke me up by gathering me into his arms and laying me on the couch. He played all of my favorite songs on the piano while I sat very quietly, untangling the tassels on my shawl. I gave him a smile.

This is how I sit for quite a while before he turns and looks at me. His eyes are gentle and soft, and he's gazing at me as though he really loves me. He still has not uttered a single word.

I let him look at me for a minute, and then he turns back to the keyboard. A few minutes later, he turns back to watch me. Then he plays again.

This happens five or six times before I put down my shawl and think for a moment. I wait until he turns back to the piano, and then I say, "Thank you."

He freezes, as if my voice has struck him, and then relaxes. Without turning, he asks, "What for?"

I hesitate. "For coming to me."

He is at my side in a flash, quicker than lightning as his black shape settlers next to me. I am not even startled anymore.

"Should I have?" he asks, taking his lithe hand a running it across my cheek. I let him travel to my eyelashes, and then he takes one lock of my hair and fingers it. I nod.

He opens his mouth, thinks, and then says, "I do not want you to be angry at me."

I sit still, careful to keep my expression smooth. "I am hardly angry at you, Erik."

We are being so cautious with each other by not mentioning what happened two nights ago. The night where I saw his smooth hands clumsy for the first time, the night where I finally accepted him as a man and not a monster. Had it been the way of seduction he might have dreamed of? No, of course not. But it would be a start.

"Not that." he replies, and he is looking at his hands. "I listened."

I am confused now. "Listened."

"To you." he says. "You and him. You left. And talked."

I take one of his fidgeting hands and say, "When I talked to Raoul?"

He looks hopelessly at me. "You told him you loved me. And I told you he wouldn't believe you. No one could possibly believe that beautiful Christine could love an ugly beast such as Erik!"

"I _do_ love you." I answer. "You believe me, and that is all that really matters."

"Poor, poor Christine!"

Lucky Christine is what I think. Lucky to have a man who would do anything for me, who cares for me fiercely every second.

"Come, Erik." I say soothingly. "I am not angry at you for listening. You had every right to. Raoul removed me from my husband's presence to interrogate me is secret."

"I love you." he says breathlessly, and I do not think he has heard a word of what I just said.

I lean in to kiss him when there is a knock at the door.

Erik swears, and says, "Now, who disturbs Erik when he is with his wife?" He slides up and vanishes out the drawing room door. I follow, keeping several feet behind him as he swings open the door and disappears once again.

I pout and pull open the door myself.

The Daroga is standing there, talking very quickly to Erik. He is soaking wet. I watch, dumbfounded for a moment, before he seems to notice me.

"Madame!" he says. "I was simply… stopping by…"

He glances uneasily at Erik, who gives me a long look.

"Go inside." he finally says. "I will be back in a moment."

"What is going on here?" I demand. "Why is everything so secret?"

"Your—ex-fiancé is on his way to the North Pole." the Daroga states matter-of-factly, while Erik sighs. "He wishes for me to tell you his goodbye, and that he could come home at any given opportunity."

"That is kind of him." I say.

"Indeed." Erik agrees, his teeth clenched together.

I put my hands on my hips and face my husband. "You did not want me to know that?"

He is silent. He shakes his head, very slowly. "He cannot come home at any time. He has accepted an expedition, and he does not control the ship. I'm afraid you are stuck with me for quite a while, my dear." His tone is attempting to be humorous, but I sense something else. "Now, I shall be back in a minute."

I go back inside.

I could feel the Daroga's gaze on me, just like Erik's. Were they both judging me, assessing me, to see if my emotions were true? I didn't like that at all.

Erik is true to his word, and comes back within five minutes. He smiles at me waiting by the door, and kisses the top of my head. "Surely you didn't worry about me?"

I cling to him for a moment, and then ask, "Is your friend still out there?"

"Friend!" he mocks. "I know not of whom you speak, but the fool who bothers us is out there, yes."

"I'll be back in a moment." I whisper, and untangle myself from him and close the door.

The Daroga is starting to pull himself away on the little boat that floats on the lake. He sees me, and says, "Christine! I'm sorry to have disturbed you again. You should not see me back."

"Is Raoul really leaving?" I ask, determined I should get all my answers before he leaves.

"Yes." he replies gravely. "He has delayed it long enough."

"If you ever get a chance to see him," I say carefully. "Tell him thank you. And that I'm sorry."

The Daroga's eyebrows crunch together. 'Sorry?"

I put my hands on my dress and look out onto the vast lake. "Sorry that I fell in love with someone else."

He pauses, and then nods. "I will. You are… you are a very great woman. I respect you."

"Did you send that newspaper to Erik? In the other language?"

"Yes. I told him I would bring Raoul de Chagny if I thought you were being held against your will. I was mistaken." he adds quickly upon seeing my expression.

I relax. Everything really was going to be alright. I run my hand wearily over my eyes and give him a weak smile. "Thank you, to you, as well."

"My girl," he says kindly. "I would prefer it if I was given the chance to thank you."

I wave to him as he struggles to pull himself away. I feel bad that he is all wet; obviously, he swam across.

Erik is at his keyboard again, sitting with his fingers crossed. "I didn't listen." he tells me tonelessly as I enter.

I go behind him and wrap him in my arms. "Whatever you want to do is fine by me."

"May I tell you a secret?" he asks. I sit next to him.

"Yes."

His hands hover over the keys. He chuckles to himself, and then says, "I am so very, very relieved that your _ex- fiancé_ is gone. Would you be very angry if I told you that I hope the ship will sink?"

I take off his mask and look at him very seriously. "I love _you_."

His eyes follow my every move. His lips part. "Christine…"

"I belong to you. You gave me my voice. You gave me my soul back. You gave me love and support through everything I did. I may have had to work to forgive you for some things, but I do."

His eyes flutter close. "This is ridiculous. Why are you constantly reassuring me?"

I laugh. His eyes open, surprised. I press my lips to his, his own lips cool and soft, his hands settling down at my waist as I reach my hands around his neck. When I pull away, he looks a little dazed.

"This is an important moment for us." I declare. "No more doubts. Only love. Just us."

"Are you real?" he murmurs. "If you are, I will not doubt you."

I pull myself completely against him, and I love him. I am real.

This _is_ an important moment for us. Because he is accepting me, and I am accepting him.

It is all very nice.

--


	21. Silence

--

A week or so passes with Erik without any incident. He keeps his temper and I do as I am told.

The first time he snapped at me is when I asked if we could look for somewhere to live above the Opera House. He became moody and withdrawn, and I didn't see him for the rest of the evening. He came into my room later and told me his behavior was unnecessary and not appropriate. I do believe it will be the closest Erik will ever get to sincerely apologizing.

Was he any different? At first, he was gentle, avoiding me, acting as though he had done a very great wrong and was paying for it. But his strange moods no longer annoy me—instead, they provide more insight into his character, and I love him even more because of it.

Tonight, I lay in Erik's arms. His hands had been pulling my curls very gently, but now they were still on my back; I believe he thinks I have fallen asleep. He is dressed again—something I have learned that he does instantly after our intimacy is over—and he has his hand in between us to keep me from completely touching him. I could say something, and I know he would move, but I do not want to upset him. We are moving slowly, but it is better than not moving at all.

I stir to let him know I am still awake, and his hands begin moving again. "Did I wake you?" he murmurs into the coils of my hair.

"No." I say softly.

He is still. "You should go to sleep, little love. It is quite late."

"I hardly have anything to do tomorrow, do I?" I ask. "Can I not sleep in?"

"You have nothing to do down here. Are you very bored?"

"No." I say, and it's mostly true. "But we did not sing today." I put an automatic pout on my face, even though I know he cannot see it.

He is unrepentant. "Your voice sounded tired yesterday. I do not want you straining."

He is being too logical for me to argue with him, so I lapse back into my silence. My next question is risking a violent mood change again, but he did say his behavior was inappropriate, so I hoped he would listen with a rational mind this time.

"I asked about living in Paris." I begin. "I know you do not seem keen on the idea, but I was wondering if I could change your mind."

"No. You know why not."

"Remind me."

He takes my face suddenly into his hands and pushes it up against his cheek so I can feel his cool flesh against my own. Then he pushes his hands into my neck so I can feel the clamminess and coldness of his skin. He takes my fingers and wraps them around his wrist so I can feel how thin he is.

"No one wants _this_ out in the open with the rest of the human race. I deserve to be separated by them all. You cannot fool me; the world does not want me up there."

"I do." I reply. "Am I not more important than the world?"

He squirms. "Christine…"

I square my shoulders, if that is possible to do lying down in a bed, and take on a pleading tone. "Perhaps we could just try it? Maybe only for a week. If it is so horrible, we'll come right back home, right back here. It might not _be_ horrible, you wouldn't have to see other people at all… oh, Erik, you've been around people before, and you know they'll just ignore you… We'll get a place in the middle of nowhere, away from where anybody could see you—"

"You've thought quite a bit about this, haven't you?"

He sounds mildly amused, as if he did not know I was capable of such thinking. I am quiet.

He lets out a deep breath. "If it means so much to you, my wife, then Erik will consider it for you."

I gently squeeze his chest, and I can feel him tighten. "Thank you." I whisper.

Erik does think about it. The next day, he asks me what part of town I would prefer to live in, and the day after that, I see him with maps on the table. I let him know I appreciate it, whether it be a soothing kiss or an affectionate touch, until I know he notices.

Finally, he comes up to me one evening as I am eating supper, and says, "Christine?"

I stop instantly and look at him.

"We will go wherever your heart desires, angel, but I do not want to leave yet. We must stay down here a little while longer, and then we will go above ground. I am not ready to leave yet. And I have not found a suitable location for us, either."

I smile encouragingly at him. "I understand." But I hope he is not just saying that. Why must we stay down here longer?

He looks at me intensely and puts his hand under my chin. "Always smiling, now." he murmurs. "Has Erik really made her happy?"

I nod, and a blindingly dazzled expression comes into his dark eyes.

His happy mood does not last for very long. Later, he is in his room, playing the organ furiously, and every note screams anger.

I do not understand, so I go to the door and knock timidly. After a minute, I realize that he would hardly be able to hear me over the noise, so I enter carefully.

"Erik?" I call. He ignores me, but the music stops on a jarring chord. Bending over, he scribbles something down. "Erik?"

"Go away." he mutters quietly.

Wounded, I move towards the door. "I'll—I'll be in the drawing room if you need me." I offer.

"Erik does not _need_ people." he suddenly growls venomously. "Erik _hates_ people! People chased Erik down here out of fear and selfishness, and Erik does not want to go back up!"

"I—I didn't mean to—"

"Erik tried to tell himself the same things you told me, Christine." he says roughly, turning on his bench to stare at me. "I believed them too, just as you do now, in your innocence. People will not care! If you stay away from people, they will not bother you! You would think, eh? You would think some people would have common decency and know not to stare, to imagine something else—but _people_, Christine, are insatiably curious. They _will_ stare. They will ask. And once they know, they will want to rid themselves of the horror they have seen, and then—"

He laughs like a maniac. He spins and presses a frightening chord on the keyboard again, and then falls to the floor and begins to crawl towards me.

"Christine," he sighs.

His tempers are over as quickly as they come, and I kneel down and hold out my arms, like a mother waiting for her small child. He climbs into them, and I kiss the top of his head.

"There, there," I say. "We will stay down here."

I can fight the disappointment later, but now, Erik needs me.

"No," he pants, struggling against my arms to sit up and stare at me desperately. "You must be happy! You must be happy _above_ ground!"

"I will be happy with you."

"Above?"

"Maybe."

"Here?"

"Here, too."

He shakes his head and asks, "Is it so terrible down here for you? Not because of me, but because of the dungeon you live in?"

"I miss the sky sometimes." I say wistfully.

"Would you rather have the sky, or Erik?" he questions. I want to laugh, but I can tell he is utterly serious.

"I would rather have my Erik."

"Ah," he says, and he leans up and gather me into _his_ arms; he has gained his control again, holding the power over me. I rub my face against his jacket, singing very softly, knowing that my voice and physical contact are the two most effective essences I have to calm Erik down.

He is already back to normal, however, and he lifts me completely off my feet and deposits me on the couch in the drawing room. He begins to sing to me, fixing the soft pillow behind me head, smoothing down my skirts, and tucking my hair behind my ears.

He keeps his voice going, looking right into my eyes unashamedly. He finally takes one of my hands and brings it to his mouth and breathes a few notes against it, and then lays it back of the couch, keeping his hand wrapped around it. His anger has evaporated, and I do not think I will ever have the heart to bring up leaving here again.

I cannot say anything. Sometimes, being quiet around Erik is most rewarding.

--


	22. Precious Care

--

Erik blamed my last walk.

Deep inside, I blamed it too, but I was much too stubborn to admit that I had been wrong about the temperature. I had protested that I hadn't needed a sweater, and Erik had told me I would, and I had walked off without one. When I hit the chilly air, I knew the smart choice would to be go back down and get a sweater, where Erik would be undoubtedly waiting by the door with it, but that would be admitting that he was right, and I did not want to do that.

As a weekly ritual, I often went up at dusk to do some shopping and walk around. Erik usually accompanied me, although he now trusted me enough to allow me to stroll along by myself. And the few times I walked alone, I found myself craving Erik's presence beside me.

So we usually went together.

I ended up staying out for over an hour, much longer than I normally would have, just to spite myself. When I went home, my nose was bright red, my breathing was raspy, and I sniffled.

Erik was furious. He made me get straight into my nightgown and put all of the quilts he had in his house over me.

"Foolish girl!" he had said. "Now you will catch cold."

I remember the drink he had given me when I had hurt my ankle, the one that had worked like magic. I told him that he surely had something to help me now. He had shaken his head.

The next morning, I wake up miserable.

My head hurts, I feel warm, and I am agitated. I roll from one side to another as I cough and breathe in.

Erik is over me in moments, touching my forehead. "Christine, Christine," he says worriedly. "Why did you not listen to your Erik?"

"I am sorry," I try to say, but I have discovered the horror: my voice is gone.

I expect him to yell at me for destroying his precious gift in me, but all he does is stare at me, his eyes growing more and more concerned.

Every sound beats against my head like a hammer; even little light from the candles must be extinguished to keep me happy. When I breathe in, there is a funny sound in my chest, like a wheezing. I sneeze in a very un-ladylike fashion and bring my handkerchief to my mouth as I cough.

How many hours have gone by? My hot skin has suddenly turned very cold, and Erik sits by me patiently as I shiver and shake under his blankets. He rubs both of my hands in his cold ones, trying to warm me with the friction.

"You have a fever, Christine." he says. "That is all."

I do not miss the shakiness to his voice. Each of his movements are cautious and careful as he handles me.

He makes me drink water, and I turn my head. Drinking makes me choke, and I am afraid to harm my voice. When I explain to him in a raspy whisper why I will not take it, I expect him to be pleased that I am still caring for my voice so tenderly. He takes my shoulder and lifts me out of the bed, and shakes me.

"I do not give a _damn_ about your voice if you die!"

If I die?

My eyes widen in horror, and I cough.

Erik climbs on the bed and cradles me, pushing my curls out of my face. He scared me so much and I bury my face into him, desperately trying not to cry, which will only bring more congestion.

Am I going to die?

All I have is a slight fever. Why would Erik assume it is fatal?

_Nonsense. Erik would never let you die_.

I have a fever that is the result of a walk I took last night. I can recover from this. Why does Erik look so frightened?

My head feels light as Erik puts cool cloth on my skin. It is almost completely dark in my room, and all I can see is Erik's glowing eyes. Is he angry? Is he scared?

_If Erik is scared, then by God, I should be too!_

Yesterday I had been fine! I had felt healthy and sure of myself. I had felt energized and happy, and I had gone for a walk.

I stay mostly in a world of dismayed dreams, where I am not awake, yet not asleep. It is in this trance, that I feel someone entering my room.

There are two voices now, but I don't understand…

"_Pneumonia has given her a fever. She is so flushed, I—I do not know what to do—"_

"_The fever will go down, Erik."_

"_You don't understand… She is so hot… I have never felt anyone this hot…"_

"_She will live."_

"_I gave her a potion while she was sleeping. That should have cured it, and it did not. I have nothing else to use. I cannot take it… I cannot stand to watch her suffer."_

"_Did it start with a cold?"_

"_Only the day before. She had gone out for a walk, and I knew it was cold. Why didn't I go after her? I did not know she would stay out for so long…. Why didn't I go after her? I could have stopped this!"_

"_Why must you always blame yourself? Have you done everything you know of?"_

"_Yes, everything. But she is so hot, Daroga, and Erik doesn't know what to do anymore…"_

They sound far away, as if they are in a tunnel. I feel a warm hand on my cheek and a cold cloth on my forehead as someone calls my name.

"Christine?"

I open my eyes, and Erik hold something in a vial. He puts his arm behind my back and lifts me into a sitting position. "Erik…?" I say. I feel light-headed again, but I force my voice to speak anyway. "Was your friend here?"

He looks at me. "We woke you? He was here some time ago… maybe an hour. No talking, little love, I need you to drink this."

I whisper, "What's wrong with me?"

"Sweetheart, nothing is wrong with Erik's Christine! She needs to rest and stop worrying. Now, are you going to drink this?"

I have a funny taste in my mouth. "Erik, I think I'm going to be sick."

"That's good. It will get the bad things out of your body."

I press my hand to my mouth and he pulls apart my fingers and pours the liquid down my throat. "You just need to rest. Are you comfortable? Are you hungry?"

Erik cares for me so, and I cannot accept any of it. I want to roll over and fall asleep.

I must have, because the next second, I sit up and retch.

Erik comes into the room and hold my hand as I moan. He has already picked me up and lies me on the chair as he gets me a new nightgown and pulls back the sheets. He hums consistently as he does this, and I hiccup in shame.

"I am sorry, I am sorry," I repeat over Erik's gentle purring. "You must be disgusted by me!"

And I honestly believe that he would be. I have never seen Erik looking anything less than immaculate in his hygiene and clothes, and the thought of his perfect, little angel throwing up was probably something he had hoped never to see.

I think he laughs as he lifts me back and lies me down. "Silly darling. Erik loves you, and he will always take care of you." And he kisses me on my horrible lips as he washes off my face.

That is true love.

He puts me against the pillows and feels my skin again. He looks down at my face in great concern, pushing his fingers up and down my arm. "I am going to bring your fever down, a_nd that is a promise._"

I shift, ignoring the pain in my head. "I feel ill…" I tell him pathetically.

"This is Erik's fault." he whispered. "You should never be in pain. If you are in pain, then it must be because of me!"

I haven't the strength to tell him he is being ridiculous. My face is already flushed from doing something as simple as sitting up, and my hands are shaking.

I expect him to leave again, but he stays lying down next to me, and I curl up to him, shivering again. He keeps his hands on my forehead until I fall asleep.

--


	23. Delirium

--

I do not know who called for me, but I heard my name.

There are voices, everywhere! I think I know the voice, but I cannot be sure anymore.

The Voice! I remember the Voice! He came down from Heaven to sing with _me_. Think of it! Out of all the people who could have possibly chosen, he chose _me_!

I cannot remember if I have sung with him lately. I feel as though I have heard him recently, but I cannot remember our last lesson. Did I forget? Was I very, very late? Oh, goodness! He will be terribly angry with me!

_He will be terribly angry with me!_

I cannot really remember him ever growing very angry with me, but at the same time, I felt as though he had yelled at me before… like he had been angry with me. Angels did not grow angry, did they? I couldn't remember. Perhaps they did…

I feel so strange, as though I cannot see what is in front of me. My body feels ridiculously cool, and I want to pull the blankets over me. Why does my head feel so foggy?

"Christine?"

Yes, that is me. Who is calling me?

"Christine!"

I sit up, and I still feel as though something is over my eyes.

But the hands! The hands that reach out and touch me are colder than ice, and I scream and pull away.

My eyes are open now, and I can see. I am in a little room by the fire, listening to violin. Papa is in the corner, playing for me! His eyes crinkle with a smile and he gestures me over so I can sit at his knee and listen. I struggle to sit up, but invisible hands are holding me down. I scream and reach out for Papa, but Papa thinks I am not coming, and Papa leaves…

"Where did you go? Come back, Papa! Come back!"

I wish he would come back. I feel comforted, for I know he will send me an angel now that he is gone. I look around the room expectantly, but no angel appears. I lean in towards the fire, but it is producing no warmth. I shake in terror. There is a noise outside! Someone is trying to get in!

I almost laugh in relief. I am simply with Mama Valerius, and it is Raoul! Raoul has come for me. How sweet of him! I laugh and put my arms out to him, and he catches me and swings me around.

Yet, it makes me dizzy, and I ask him to stop… Please stop, Raoul… Why isn't he stopping?

I scream again, and throw myself into the arms of the first person I can find.

He is still and firm, not swinging me, not making me dizzy. He supports me with his arms, and I feel stable, until I can look up into his face.

"You _saved_ me." I whisper dramatically. The man clutching me has a funny face—oh, he is ugly!—but at least he is still. I was getting so dizzy and sick.

"Christine, please…"

The man is pushing me away from him—does he want to drop me? I will fall if he releases me! I grab his collar and pull at it, my fingers locked in a vice-like grip around the base of his neck. I scream again, and it suddenly occurs to me that Erik will be so unhappy that I am ruining my voice.

If only the Voice was here… he would tell me what to do.

Or even Erik… where is Erik?

Erik is holding me, of course. How could I have forgotten? I nuzzle into him, ignoring the opera below me. I wish he would kiss me again.

Below me? The opera is below me!

The rafter swings dangerously, and I thrash upwards, reaching towards the mask above me. There is no mask, there is only Erik, and he is not catching me! I told him I would fall, and he did not believe me!

What was I lying on? Was it rocks? I go from one side to the other, trying to find a place that is comfortable for me. I feel so cold and my body aches. What was happening to me? Why wasn't Erik waking me up?

I press my little fists into my eyes and whine. I don't like this, not at all.

"Sing to me," I whisper drowsily, and I can only hope that he hears me throughout the loud noise in my head.

But I am angry that he will not kiss me! I asked him to kiss me, damnit, and he wouldn't! He _refused_! I pull at him, grasping at his hands so he will look at me.

The strange veil covers my eyes again and I go limp and lay back.

"Christine, you must stop moving."

What does the Voice mean? I am laying in bed, listening to him. I am doing everything he told me to. Everything!

I always listened to the Voice, you see. I had been so alone, and felt so abandoned by Papa. I couldn't just sit and do nothing, but that was exactly what I was doing. I hadn't wanted to try anymore. If Papa couldn't be bothered in Heaven, then there was no way God himself would bother with me—would send me an angel! I was such a mournful little girl, and all I had wanted was everything to stay the same. I am so very frightened of change. If only everything could stay the way it had already been planned, then I could be happy. I had wanted Papa because I knew Papa was always going to be there; I wanted Raoul because he was a part of Papa, a promise that I could go back to the world I had never wanted to leave.

I want Erik. I want to wake up and be in his dark house forever, with nothing unchanged. Why would I possibly want to move away? That is silly. Underground is my home, and the only home I want. Above ground, everything would be so different, so utterly strange from what I have accustomed myself to here.

I thought I had received that angel… until I realized it was only Erik.

_Only Erik._

I had cried, because I had been so foolish, thinking Papa had really sent me an angel.

I realized later that Papa _had _sent me an angel. He had sent me Erik.

Where was Erik? I thought he was holding onto me. Why would he leave me like this?

"Erik, don't leave me!" I cry, and I flail around, trying to find his shape in the darkness. He is not there. He is gone. I have been foolish in the end. Erik has left me because I never showed him how much I loved him. He had left thinking that I did not care.

I grow angry. Why would Erik leave me when I was so very sick? He said I was going to die! Am I dead? Have I gone on without Erik? But this is not Heaven. Heaven does not have pain like this.

How peculiar… I can feel his hands and hear his voice, but he is not there. There is no one in my dressing room. I cross over to my vanity, but someone is still dragging behind me, holding my arms down at my side; the hands feel warm and sweaty, until I realize that it is _my_ skin… but I am still so cold, and I want to sleep.

"I want to sleep." I tell the ceiling above me. "I just want to close my eyes and not see anything."

"Close your eyes, then."

I look around, but no one is there. I look around for Raoul… I have the strangest sensation that he should be here, but I do not want him here… not when he made me so dizzy.

"If I close my eyes, will you still be here?" I ask of Erik. Suddenly, I can see him, settled right next to me, his hands clasped around my own.

"Your Erik will always be here." he says, and his voice sounds smooth and unconcerned. I recall that it had once sounded desperate… Had he said something about death? Right now, his voice was pure sympathy, gentle and cool against my cheek.

I watch him as he looks down at me, his yellow eyes twinkling oddly. I thought I had been asleep, but I wasn't sure anymore… all I see is the angel above me with two, dark wings…

"Erik?" I say. "Are you an angel?"

All I can see is the dark side of my eyelids, but I think he answers.

But I cannot hear.

"That is alright if you're not." I assure him. "I love you how you are."

He says something again. I wonder what Erik did with the Voice… I had been so sure that they had both been in here together a few minutes ago.

Maybe I have gone insane! Erik has had me locked in this room for so long, because I am not a good wife, and now I have gone insane! Do insane people know they are insane? Perhaps this is why I cannot see some things, why I hear so many different voices.

Silly me. I am sick. I wish I wasn't sick.

I don't like being sick. Why am I so sick?

I am almost feeling better… this room is not so cold anymore, and when I inhale, I can hear a clean sound. Oh, thank you! Now I will be able to sing again, and Erik will not be so angry.

"Angel?" I ask. "Am I almost better?"

The Angel leans over me and kisses me, and his face is beautiful, with sparkling golden eyes. "Almost all better." he says, and I know he is my Voice, come to take care of me.

--


	24. Just To Breathe

--

I open my eyes and stretch. I have had several dreams, and they've all been very tiresome. The bed is empty, and I look around for Erik. I give a little surprised start when I see him. He is in his chair by my bed, and he is asleep. I do not think I have ever seen him in a slumber before. Wondering if I am likely to ever see him like this again, I take a moment to study him without his knowledge.

When his eyes are closed, the shadows around him eyes are less pronounced and his face looks fuller, as if the hollowness in his cheeks in only magnified by his hollow eyes. His mouth is closed, and it's turned down into a frown. He does not look peaceful, but I can imagine that he is.

I can see that my room looks less than it usually does. There are so many bedcovers around me that I might have misplaced my bed if I was not lying on it. Buckets of water liter the sides of the room, with white cloths thrown haphazardly over the rims. Even Erik looks a little ruffled; he is wearing no overcoat, and the fabric of his shirt is wrinkly.

I move my arm against my pillow, and Erik's eyes snap open. He sits up instantly and watches me with a wary eye.

"Erik," I smile, and I hold out my hand to him.

He rises, still watching me far too closely, and then comes and kneels next to me. "Christine?" he asks, and he sounds so unsure. It makes me smile in a somber sort of way.

"I'm sorry I woke you…" I say sadly. "You are such a light sleeper, it's ridiculous…"

He puts his hand to my face, and then checks my wrist. He puts his hand on my collarbone. "Breathe." he instructs me, and I inhale, feeling a little raspiness in my throat. "Can you swallow?" he questions quietly, and I demonstrate. He releases my hand and feels my arm. I feel a little sweaty, but other than that, I am fine.

I see such relief break out over his face, a look of explosive unconcern that had been lacking only moments ago. He keeps his hand on my arm for another minute, watching me take carefully measured breaths, two of his fingers tapping in time with my heartbeat.

Alas, it seems that now Erik is satisfied with my condition, he remembers why I was sick in the first place. His face changes to a look of discipline. "Why did you not come back when it was cold? Why did you not listen to me?"

"But—well, I am all better now—"

"The point is that you disobeyed me! And it very well could have cost you your life!" He takes his hand and pulls my face towards him roughly. "Do you know me? Do you know who I am?"

Now I am simply confused. "Of course I know—"

"Yesterday, you didn't! All last week, you did not know who I was! And I had to sit here, with nothing to do for you, and I had to watch you in _pain,_ had to watch you cry out, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it!"

I cringe away from him and kick off the many covers on top of me. When I try to sit up, he takes both of his hands and presses them into my shoulders, forcing me to lean back. Each contour of my body feels heavy and weak, as if I have not exercised a single muscle for several days. Erik drags his hand down to my waist so he can hoist me up to a comfortable position, and then stands up once more, pacing by the bed.

"You could hardly understand." he hisses softly, and I have the distinct impression that he is talking to himself. "Christine is perfect; has been perfect, will be perfect, and _is perfect_. If any harm befalls her, or anything of dark nature comes upon her, it must be because of me! She was perfect, until I took her!"

He continues muttering like this until I give a melodramatic sigh. "Must you blame yourself for everything?"

"Must you constantly bother Erik?" he snaps. "He is thinking."

"You are _not_ thinking. You are blaming yourself!"

"Well, who else have I to blame? It is not your fault that I did not give you something warmer to wear… so who shall I blame?" He looks at me, as if daring me to challenge his response.

"I should have been responsible enough to take care of myself," I offer, but he is shaking his head before I am done.

"No, no, Christine has _Erik_ to care for her. I _like_ caring for you, my sweetest. But I failed you that night, and I was punished by having to watch you… watch you like this…" His voice breaks at the end, and he turns away, resuming his fervent pacing once more.

I sit up, surprised by the dizziness that comes with it. I manage to pull my shocked face together to glare at him, and then swing my legs over the side of the bed.

He sighs, comes over, and then picks me up. I bury my face into the crook of his arm, and rest my head there for a moment. He moves his arms ever so slightly in a rocking motion, and then carefully drags his fingers across the top of my head. "Was I close… to dying?" I ask timidly, ashamed by the way my voice twinges.

"Erik overreacted." he explains. "Erik just cannot stand to see you in any pain. He grew frightened."

I let that sink it for a moment. "I'm sorry I did not listen to you." I murmur. For some reason, Erik stiffens, and his hands grow so tight.

"Erik feels angry!" he says aloud. "But he cannot be angry at you. You are so sweet, so tender, and you are right here, against me…" He lets his arm bring me closer to his side, being careful not to crush me. I can feel him taking a deep breath, as though he is trying to calm himself. I count to ten, and he still holds onto me.

I push off of him and lean back on my covers. "Have I been sick for a very long time?" I can hardly recall when I came to lie down… I had a headache, and I had thrown up with Erik… it all seemed like a very, long time ago, in a different setting I couldn't quite place.

He looks at me dispassionately. "Over a week, my little angel."

I stare at him blankly. "A—week?"

He nods, looking at me. He looks disappointed that I have taken myself out of his arms. I sit back, trying to digest this new information. I thought I had only fallen asleep! "Was I awake?"

He hesitates. "You were not yourself. You were hallucinating. I…I would touch you, and you would scream…"

_He would touch me, and I would scream._

He had touched me… and I had screamed?

Wicked Christine! What else had I done to him?

His words pierce a hole right through my heart. I could picture too clearly the scene in my mind: Erik reaching, trying to comfort me, as I shriek when his cold, dead hands touch my own. I know Erik far too well to assume my reaction had no effect in him. "Erik, you know I would never—"

"No need to justify it." he interrupts briskly. "As I said, you were not yourself. And my hands are cold, my dear. No one, not even you, can deny such an undisguised fact." As if to prove his point, he puts his fingers at the base of my neck, where the freezing cold shocks me as I try desperately not to respond.

"It's alright." he croons. "I know it, and you know it. There is no use in either of us hiding it."

I press my lips to his knuckles. "I love you anyway."

"Yes, I know."

"And I apologize for anything I might have said or done to offend you."

I should have known he would take that statement way of context.

He straightens. "Does that concern where you adamantly refused the sweater I tried to give you?" He scowls at me. "How could I possibly send you out for walks now? And summer is ending, which means that the air will be growing even colder. Do you hear the utter absurdity of your statement? You think you _offended_ Erik? You think that getting sick and struggling to breath _offends_ Erik, or terrifies him? No more walks for you!" He brings himself up to his full height and stares down at me with a clever eye. "You must stay here with your Erik—his skin may not be warm, but his _house_ certainly is!"

--


	25. Change

--

For the next few weeks, I remained unsteady on my feet with Erik hovering over me, telling me incessantly that I would be weak because of the fever. Already a frail being, this condition only intensified Erik's care in me… when he was being caring. He left me alone for two days when he locked himself in his room—yet, I never heard one note of music.

Besides that short time, he followed me everywhere, carried me when I needed to walk more than two feet, and gave me whatever I asked for. His only request was that I do not go back outside until I was completely healed.

As much as I protested that I was, I occasionally grew very tired from the fever and had to lie down. Erik checked constantly for any rise of my temperature, but it never came. He became angry occasionally if I was foolish enough to remind him of my illness. On the most part, he just showered me with his undivided attention and devotion.

As time went by, I grew brave enough to ask once again about living somewhere else; I learned a new song composed by Erik; he also began to attempt to teach me Latin; and I made him a special mask for him to wear when we went on our walks (a subtle reminder that I was expecting those back). Yet, I began to notice a different change around me, something that I could sense but couldn't quite decide upon.

But again, as those few weeks came to a close, I became more and more sure about my concern. I started to flit around Erik in a nervous manner, often avoiding his gaze, darting away when he came to close. My mind had created a subconscious speech in order to tell him, but in truth, I clung onto the false hope that maybe I would never have to.

To explain to Erik that I was carrying his child seemed much harder to me than telling him I loved him or that I couldn't hit the note he had just written for me. This was something that was about _us_ and not just me; it wasn't something that we could get used to or forget about. This would be something that would quite obviously change our lives.

Strange how I seem so calm about it, as a baby was something that came along every other day. I am very sure now, you see, although I cannot say I know when it is due.

A baby?

I can remain diplomatic and detached about it, only when I am not thinking about anything beyond tomorrow. I know that I am utterly unprepared to be a mother, but I have been unprepared for a lot of things that have been thrust upon me. Sometimes I think I am still a child myself—Erik will either completely agree or completely disagree, depending on what mood he is in—and I cannot prepare my thoughts for the idea of actually _raising_ one myself. So I do not think of it.

But at night when it's dark, I have the oddest sensation stir inside of me, and I know I am not really alone.

That is when it hits me that I am really carrying a child.

_Oh, Lord, what am I to do?_

Another being in this world that Erik created… Here in the cellars of an Opera House, cut off from the rest of the world, in this strange place where music is the only light.

Is it really so difficult to understand why I couldn't believe it?

The idea of a child had never occurred to me before this moment. I am sure I would have thought of it eventually, but as to the art form of parenting, Erik and I would never have passed in my thoughts. I _could_ be a mother, I knew, for I work well with children and enjoy them immensely. But then, why couldn't I go and care for _other_ people's children, and not one that I had to actually call my own?

Besides, Erik does not know how to handle himself, handle me, handle anyone who had even half a mind; how would I expect him to have patience with a _baby_?

I decided that if I were to tell Erik and expect a non-negative response in any form, I had to wait until he was in a perfectly good mood. After putting it off, and putting it off, I still had no ideas on how he would take the news. Would he be angry? Would he be happy? I couldn't imagine either way, and I was sure that it would depend on the manner of which I told him.

So I waited.

I refused to acknowledge any physical change about me, even when I first noticed the stays on my dress twisting with difficulty. Was it so wrong of me to ignore it? When I didn't dwell on it, I didn't remember it, and when I didn't remember it, I didn't panic. For the first time, I was delighted by the fact that I cannot tell days apart down here… I hid the calendar Erik gave me under my bed so I did not have to watch time go by, and I slept when I was tired, not just when Erik told me it was night.

If my behavior took my husband by surprise, he hid it well. I still believe he accredits any peculiarity about me to my fever—I almost think he _enjoys_ taking care of me when I am weak. But when he needs me to be healthy, for his music or otherwise, I must be.

Now, I am light-headed and tired, but Erik is asking me to sing, and I will sing. If I try to tell him I am sleepy, he will not let me out of bed for a day.

He frowns when my note flickers off rather pathetically, and says, "How horrible! You purposely lost all of your support."

I do not even apologize anymore. I just lift up my chin to indicate that he should start the phrase again. Instead, he comes over to me. "Are you alright?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely confused. "I know this is not like you."

He reaches out, as if to touch me, and I scoot back a little. He looks hurt, insulted, and then nonchalant in a matter of a second, and then folds his arms. "Are you still sick?" he demands. "You are acting strangely and I want to know why!"

"I have been feeling tired lately…"

"Fever does that."

"Erik, that was over three weeks ago! I am recovered!"

His mouth twists. "Then why are you still sick?"

"I said _tired_, not sick."

He looks so baffled and I realize he would never suspect anything like the thing I need to tell him. It would never cross his mind. "Well, then you must go straight to sleep! Erik does not want you tired… You must be well-rested in order to recover properly."

I take another step back, as if he would be able to feel the life growing in me if he were to touch me. I do not miss how his yellow eyes pick up on every move I make.

"You know, it is nothing." I say brazenly. "You are so silly, overreacting like this. Maybe I can go lie down and then we'll sing later."

"Maybe." he echoes, still looking at me quizzically. "You may lie down in here… I will play you something quiet."

There is nothing wrong with his offer, but I just need to be alone. I want Erik by me, but I cannot have Erik by me until he knows. And if I cannot have Erik by me, I must be alone so I can think of how to let him know so he can be by me. I shake my head and say softly, "I would just disturb you, Erik. I shall just go and relax in my own room… I will not be in there long. Will you play for me later?"

He inclines his head and fingers his music as if my absence will mean nothing to him. Angry at myself for my ridiculous actions and words, I go and place a light kiss on the palm of his hand. He looks at me sadly. "You would tell me if anything was wrong, Christine? You know Erik will make it all better, whatever it is."

"I know." I say bravely, and I let him touch my cheek.

I traipse out of the room boldly and then lock the door to my own room. Inside, I look at my midsection and desperately wish that nothing was in there.

But there is, I realize with care, my fingers coming to rest on top of it: My child is in there.

--


	26. Comprehension

--

There were really no words to sum up Erik's initial reaction. I wasn't sure if I was disappointed or relieved—or possibly both.

Erik had said, "Oh."

I had waited until he was in a sane state of mind; we had gone for a pleasant stroll around the lake, I had cooked a nice meal while Erik watched me warily, and then he had told me a story while I lay on his lap.

And then I told him that I was expecting a child.

And he said, "Oh."

I sit up, pushing my hands against his chest so he will look at me. His face is steady—too steady. The face he wears when he's hiding some emotion. And he says nothing else.

What had I been expecting? A shouting match? Objects thrown? I wasn't sure why I was so positive that he would be furious about this child; for some reason, that was the only reaction I could picture him having.

"Erik," I say heatedly. "Are you very angry with me?"

His face changes; the briefest expression flits across his eyes before replaced by that blank look I hate. He blinks. "_Angry _with you? Why would I be angry with you?"

I feel tension in the air, and his tightness beneath me. His lips press together, and I can see that _now_ he is angry.

"We never—"I start, unsure as I stare into his flaming eyes. "We never talked about it! You never said anything!"

He looks at me, and his grip around my waist has become vice-like. "Are you a_ngry_ about this child?"

"No, no!" I say, horrified. I can tell he is trying to push me off, and I cling to him with all my feeble might. "I'm just a little _frightened_." I admit, breathing into his shoulder. It is much easier to look there than his burning eyes.

His arms drop from around me, but I can feel some of his fury evaporate when I say I am scared. As always, he must comfort me in these situations. "Of what?" he asks finally. "Tell Erik what you're frightened of."

"I don't know." I murmur. "So many things, I suppose. I do not know how to raise a child, certainly not down here. And I didn't know what your reaction would be, so I was scared you might be angry because—because you wouldn't want a child. And I can't give birth down here, all alone! I would have to go and hire a midwife, and I know she cannot come down here…"

I trail off miserably as I feel Erik's anger again. "So, you're frightened of having_ my _child." he hisses. "Because I live down here, where no child could ever flourish! Because poor Erik is so selfish that he wouldn't let you go up to get a midwife! _Is that what you're frightened of, Christine?"_

"No." I say very softly.

I wrap my arms around myself as it seems that Erik will not do it; I crawl off him so I can stay seated by him on the couch. He stares at me curiously. "You do not want… Erik's child? Because you do not want it raised here, by me?"

I shake my head. "I love you, Erik. I am… proud to be carrying your child. But… we must arrange things differently. How are we to raise a child down here?"

He suddenly narrows his eyes. "Is this a ploy to let you live above ground?"

I scowl at him. "Would I sink that low?"

His eyes change, and he looks as though he's thinking for a moment. "Really?" he asks, and I allow myself to get a little hopeful. I nod.

He makes a clicking noise with his tongue. "You do not mind having… something of Erik inside of you?"

His words sting me, and he looks so innocent, so sincere, like her really believes that I would care. I shake my head again and crawl back over to him. "You will help me raise our child, right?" I have a horrible fear that he will reject the child, maybe even hate it.

He laughs. "No."

I blink. "What—what do you mean?"

"I am happy for you if it is what you want—although I pity you for having to carry Erik's child! Erik never thought he would have to worry about anything of the sort, never thought a woman—" He breaks off for a moment, and takes a deep breath. "—Erik never thought he would have to think about it. But now, Erik's seed may be just as deformed as he is, and he pities his lovely wife for that burden—" Tears sting at the corner of my eyes. "But Erik will not harm your child, my love. Erik will stay far away from it. Because Erik is a bad man," His voice drops to a whisper. "And he would be no type of a father."

I pull on his arm, afraid in my heart that every word may be true. "Don't you say such things about yourself!"

Erik watches me calmly. "If it bothers you, I will not." he says dispassionately.

"You will have a child." I whisper. "Something you never thought you would have. Doesn't that make you _happy_?"

"_Christine_ will have a child." he corrects gently. "And he will treat it with all the respect Christine's child would deserve." He stands up suddenly, leaving my looking up at him in wonder. "Now, shall we go sing?"

I drop my head, my curls obscuring my face. I sniff.

Erik kneels down, lifting up my hair so he can see my face. His expression is guarded again. "Christine? Do not cry, please. I did not mean to make you cry."

"Well, you did." I say bitterly, and I think nothing about sparing Erik's feelings. "You insult me by saying you want nothing to do with our child—_Our _child—a child that is both _yours_ and _mine_, equally! A child that you helped create, a child that will need all the love we have to offer, and a child that I cannot raise by myself."

He looks torn for a moment. "What do you want me to say, sweetheart? No, I do not want a child. Yes, I want what will make you happy."

"That's rather _contradictory!_" I hiss. He frowns.

"I believe it's quite simple, really." he replies. "I love you. You are above all other things."

"And our child?" I ask desperately.

He surveys me with no emotion. "What about it?"

I let out a strangled scream. "_What about it?_ "

"Christine!" he says in alarm, coming back over to me. "Stop it!"

I struggle against him, but he is too strong for me, and he forces me back on the couch. I refuse to look at him, and he twists my head towards him. My arms hang pointlessly at my side and the pressure he is exerting on my automatically makes me fall into his embrace—which is, I notice ironically, the place where I started this.

"Christine," he murmurs into my ear; his voice has taken on an enticing scent of power and control. "Are you very angry with your poor Erik?"

"Yes." I say instantly.

We are both silent for a very long moment. "I do care." he says. "But you do not understand… how I could possibly feel…"

I stay silent, for I know if I am going to get any sort of honest outpouring from Erik, it will be if I do not interrupt him.

"A child." he muses aloud. "My child? In the woman I love… you see how I cannot comprehend that? No, it's not possible. And all the terrible things the child will have—you were right, here is no place to raise a child. And it's all my fault."

"I forgive you." I say, lifting my eyes to the ceiling. He doesn't notice.

"Why must I be involved with the child? Why can it not be yours?"

"Because it's ours." I remind him. "A child needs parents to love them. Both parents." I add.

"My parents destroyed me. I hated them. They hated me. Why would I want to bring an innocent life into this world? I do not. The world will eventually hate them anyway, no matter how hard they try…"

And suddenly he is crying, his face pressed into my hair as tears fall.

I wrap my arms around him, a learned reaction, and he sobs into me unceasingly.

"Christine, Christine," he sobs. "You do not understand."

I keep my little hands around him, listening to his emotions as if they are music. They are deeper than I can picture, more complex than most.

I cannot yell at him anymore. I can only love him, and hope for the best.

And he's right, in the end. I do not understand. And it's unlikely that I ever will.

--


	27. Stirrings

--

Erik didn't ignore it, exactly; he simply had a funny way to reacting to it. If I would mention the baby, he always looked genuinely surprised, as if he had forgotten about it. If I complained that I was tired or bored, he would look confused—until my condition seemed to dawn on him.

He let me go up to find a midwife. The lady I chose was well-known for her compassionate nature, and she took me in, believing me to be an unwed girl who had been disgraced. I did not enlighten her. Though I highly doubted I would be recognized as Christine Daae, the former opera star, I knew Erik would want nothing to do this. If I mentioned a husband, he would have been forced to appear at some time or another.

Madame Peluieu, as she was called, told me all seemed to be in order, and told me I should be expecting movements in the week or so to come. I felt so strange, interacting with someone other than Erik. She smiled often and gestured her hands when she talked.

Erik, who would have been pacing at the front door in the past months, was nowhere to be seen when I came home. Later, I told him I had found someone to deliver _our_ child and now we would just need a place.

Today, Erik comes out of his room with a sheet of paper. Putting it on the table in front of me, I saw it was a map. Erik points one gloved finger in the upper right corner and says, "There is a small house there, Christine. It is not very pleasant, but it is far away from everybody else. There is where Christine will go to deliver her baby. And then she will come back down here until we can find a more suitable place."

That was all I needed at the present moment. Smiling at him, so he would know I was thankful, I take the map gently. I do not know where the cottage is, but I know the area.

Later, I ask if I may go and see it. He inclines his head and frowns. "It is much too late, Christine." he scolds. "And much too far. We will go some other time."

This remained his attitude for several weeks until I was quite angry with him. He no longer offered to sing with me, knowing I would turn it down on account of being too tired; he no longer talked to me anymore, knowing I was likely to snap at him; he no longer came to bed at night, knowing I would complain about how uncomfortable I was.

When I first felt a stirring in my abdomen, I sat very still for a few minutes to verify the feeling. Sure enough, it came again, sure and forceful against my skin.

My instinct is to leap up and tell Erik, but I am already unhappy with the way he had spoken to me this morning—and I was not sure of what he would think of it. He might not care if the baby was moving or not, but I feel it is my duty to let him know.

I creep to his doorway, where he is sitting, staring blankly at the wall. I look at him in concern, but he does not appear to notice me. I knock on the wood frame and he blinks, his eyes coming to rest on me as if he had been dragged from a deep thought.

"Yes?" he asks lowly.

I cower at his expression and my courage melts away. "What are you doing?"

He looks at me curiously. "Here? Nothing, my darling, nothing at all. Are you tired?"

I shake my head. "No. We could sing, if you want."

He gives a dry chuckle. "No thank you, my dear. I would not want you to get weary."

I throw him a glance, wondering if he is being sarcastic; it is so hard to tell. He looks up at me innocently. "Is something the matter?"

There is so much I want to confide in Erik at that moment: the things I dream about with our child, the stirrings I feel inside of me, the things I want to purchase for them… but I do not. I do not because I am a coward, and I do not know what he would say to that. I cannot imagine Erik liking that sort of talk—babies, indeed! I think of a different fear to confide in him.

I hesitate. "You haven't held me for a while. I'm lonely."

He sighs, and then opens his arms. I gratefully go across the room and into his lap—it's a little tighter than it used to be.

"You seem like you've been avoiding me." I say, tracing the stitching of his coat to avoid looking at him.

"No, I have not." he replies, but it's very soft and much gentler than what I'd been expecting.

I bite my lip, wanting to argue with him—but knowing I shouldn't. "Thank you for finding that house."

He gives a tight smile. "It was really nothing. And we will not be staying in it long. Just—just so you can have the child, dear."

"You really don't like the idea of a baby, do you?" I ask.

He pushes me away—why does he always do that when he wants to avoid a question?—and turns back to the wall. "Silly. Erik is happy about your—"

"_Our_—"

"—baby, and he wants everything to turn out wonderfully. However, he doesn't like how you keep pressing the fact that it is _Erik's_ child. I _know_ it is Erik's child—_it had better be Erik's child, Christine—_but he really does not want to think about it at this present time."

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot raise a child! Why must you continuously suggest that I can?"

I wave my hand obnoxiously in front of his face so he will look at me. "Fine! You do not have to come near our child! Don't care for it at all! You shouldn't even come near me _now_, for the baby might hear you! And you will just frighten them anyway, won't you?"

He hisses at me. "It may be extraordinarily like its mother in that sense!"

"If I was frightened away, how is it that I am having your child?"

He suddenly flinches, as if I have thrown something at him. He stares at me for a full ten seconds, and he looks—amazed.

"Sometimes," he says very quietly. "You are quite a dramatic child. I suggest you go lie down. I do not want you to get too excited."

"You are an impossible person!" I say stonily, heading out of the room.

He is! The way he switches from fury to compassion is unnerving. I cannot _think_ when he acts like that. And he is always like that!

He crawls into bed that night and kisses my face, asking if I love him. When I assure him that yes, I do love him, he leaves and goes into the music room.

He does this the following night as well, and I cling to his collar before he can desert me again. When I beg him to sing me to sleep, I know he cannot resist, and he vocalizes sweet, little lullabies until I am asleep.

I think it was a good thing that he was assured of my love in those days, for in the weeks that followed, I believe he thought I was going insane. I dropped my favorite teacup in the kitchen and burst into tears for hours before I could calm myself down. I became absolutely determined to sew up a hole in one of my sleeves, but when I couldn't get the knot tied, I threw the ball of yarn into the lake. Out of nowhere, I would suddenly feel like I needed to cry. The funniest thing was that I _knew_ it was my pregnancy that was causing this; whenever I cried, I would remind myself that there was nothing to cry about, and it was only the baby that was making my emotions spin like this.

It often did not help.

Erik, of course, helped in any way he could—without lingering around me. The day after I dropped the teacup, I found it perfectly repaired and sitting on my dresser; and a new, thinner ball of yarn was in my basket the next week. One thing Erik seemed to have trouble dealing with was m tears. He would always stare at me in horror for a moment, until he would come over and coax me to stop crying. Eventually, he learned to accept that if I was bothered, I would not stop crying—I just wouldn't. Not until whatever was bothering me had been chased from my mind.

The baby hasn't moved for weeks now, and it bothers me.

Something tells me I should go see the midwife and ask her what this means, but I cannot bring myself to ask Erik. I do not know why, for I know that Erik would be willing to let me go… but I am afraid of mentioning anything that would remind him of the baby to Erik. I never know how he will react. Sometimes it is with anger, other times with wonder, occasionally with sadness.

As each day grows longer for me, I know the baby will come in perhaps another month or so. I feel heavy and weighed down, physically and emotionally.

When I am in my room alone, I sing to them. Oh, not singing like I do with Erik! A gentler singing, a softer singing. I will put my hands over my stomach protectively and hum out little tunes I know well. In my childish mind, I wish the baby would react to them—kick? Move? Anything? Yet, the child within me stays still, except for an occasional turn at night.

--


	28. Pain I

--

I wake up one night and cry out. There is a sensation that there is something very heavy on top of my stomach, pressing into me. I roll over instantly and drop my feet over the edge of the bed, sitting still for a moment, my breathing a little ragged at the violent awakening. Erik appears in the doorway, looking for the cause of the cry I just uttered. I look at him briefly so he knows I am not injured.

I feel like something is wrong. When I try to stand, I feel strange. I look down at my nightgown, which is feeling unusually heavy. My mouth falls open as I reach out and touch the red liquid seeping through the material.

"I'm bleeding…" I say in shock.

Erik moves too fast for my eyes to catch, but I am suddenly wrapped in a blanket, in his arms, and out the door before I can focus on him.

I think I pass out.

The October air chills me, and I rouse my head in Erik's arms. He does not spare a glance for me, but walks determinedly in the direction of the midwife's house. He should not know where it is… he has never come with me the two times I visited her. Strange enough, the fact that he surely had been following me does not upset me; in this situation, is makes me downright thankful.

As soon as we get to the doorstep, he hesitates. I can see that he does not want to be seen or involved in this in any way. In his eyes, I can see him begging for freedom, and I do not fault him for it. Instead, I say, "Please…"

Without knocking, he pushes open the door with one fist and puts me on the first chair he can find. My stomach is cramping, but I remain quiet and upright. He gives me one last look, and I can see that he is terrified. Then he disappears.

Inside, I am trembling with fear.

_What is happening to me_?

Perhaps I am so attuned to my senses that I can hear Erik as if he is whispering in my ear; all I know is that I can hear him, and he is not just my Erik anymore. He has changed into different being, a hypotonic voice that can rise anyone from their slumber.

"_You must wake up… you must save a woman and her child… she needs you…"_

I can hear the woman arising, and Erik appears at my side before he can be seen. "Don't leave me!" I beg, and he crosses over and touches my hair.

"Erik is not leaving," he says. "Erik is always with you. But now you must be still."

And then he is gone.

Madame Peluieu is rushing out in her dressing gown. Her eyes fall on me.

"What a strange dream!" she cries in alarm. "God be praised I woke!" She doesn't seem concerned that I have somehow gotten into her house undetected in the dead of night. She has a purpose and she will fulfill it.

"Up, now, I must take you into the side bedroom…"

With unusual strength, she pulls me up with two hands and half-drags, half-carries me into the room. It is a tiny room, which I realize instantly is designed for the purpose of childbirth. Stripping back the sheets, she lays me down and pulls off the blanket. Her face darkens.

"Oh dear," she murmurs. "Oh…"

In my blind panic, I am not registering anything that is happening around me. She leaves me for a moment, and it frightens me. Shadows are flashing before my eyes, and I can see Erik leaving me, while she leaves me alone to suffer.

When I scream, she comes back in with a younger woman, who fetches water and other necessities.

I wail.

There is a terrible, terrible pressure in my abdomen that I cannot ever describe. Each time I inhale, there is a pain that shoots down my stomach and through my legs.

"I don't understand…" I moan. "Why is this happening?"

She answers, and I still don't hear her. Too much is going on for me to think properly.

Where did Erik go? Why did he leave? I asked him not to, and he left anyway… he did not listen to me. He _left_ when I was calling for him…

But Erik _always _here's me when I call.

"_Erik will hear me whenever I call for him. He told me so. He is a very curious genius. You must not think that he is simply a man who amuses himself by living underground. He does things that no other man could do; he knows things which nobody in the world knows."_

"Erik!" I call out, but my throat is cracked, and my voice is garbled.

I know I must be silent… Erik will not like it at all if I hurt my voice in a time like this.

_You silly girl…! Erik could care less about your voice in a time like this!_

How interesting… my subconscious sounds quite a lot like my angel…

Madame Peluieu puts her hands on my cheek.

"This is not going the way it should." she suddenly says gently. "But I need you to do what I tell you."

"Push?" I ask blankly

She shakes her head, and I scream.

The pressure is unbearable, and I hear the midwife say to the other, "Something is stuck."

I yell in frustration, and the younger girl comes over and puts a warm hand on my head. "I know…"

Time passes.

It is like being sick all over again.

My body is blocking out anything that could bother me: voices, movements, pain.

But every time I scream, it's as if it violently jerks me back to reality. Madame Peluieu will tell me to do something, and I'll oblige however I can. Sometimes she would move me, and other times she would ask me to stay very still.

I suppose it really was not that long. It could have been only a few minutes, or several hours.

"The cord," Madame Peluieu kept saying. "Watch the cord."

I struggle against everything that is welling up inside of me, until I scream some more.

The midwife does not ask me to stop or tell me to hush—she lets me scream and brings me water when she thinks I need it. But in my mind, I am not screaming because of the pain.

I am screaming because Erik is not here.

And I _want_ him here.

I cried his name over and over again in a frenzied manner, thrashing about as if I could reach out and touch him. I asked Madame Peluieu to close the windows, but she never did; I took to staring out the window, willing myself to believe that Erik was right behind it, watching me as I suffered for his child.

But I knew the real reason was not selfish or unfeeling—my Erik must be terrified. I saw it in his eyes, and I know if to be true. To have him near me would cause him immeasurable pain, and that is not what I want. But _I_ am selfish, and I don't care how much I upset Erik, so long as he can be here, beside me.

I know my poor Erik. And in my heart, I do not want him here. I want him far away, where he cannot hear my screams.

Each scream will surely break him... I know this and I still wish for him! I am cruel and undeserving!

"_The cord… I knew it was the cord!"_

Again, there is the pain, and again, I call for Erik in my anguish.

And this time, I know he has come.

I can sense him first, through the open window. And then I know he is beside my bed.

It seems silly to think that he would come now, after all this time… but I know the end is coming. Is it me who will die, or my innocent child? I want Erik to be here, to hold my hand no matter what course Fate chooses for me.

He cannot be seen. The bed is the corner and he is in the shadowy tuck-away between the table and window. I reach for him, and his shaking hand touches mine. All I can see are his golden eyes.

"Erik's fault." he whispers. "Erik's fault."

"Don't…" I whisper, but I haven't the courage to say anything else to him. I will not scream in front of him, but I release a low whimper, and he cringes.

"Careful, now…! Keep her still, keep her still. Child, listen to me! Listen!"

I cannot listen because I am screaming again and Erik's hand has been pulled out of mine so I am grasping and writhing in the air.

"_Erik's fault!"_

"No! Be quiet!"

I wish for silence! That's all I want... all I need...

There is a horrible wailing noise, and it's coming from me! I cannot quiet myself, I cannot calm myself. Erik's eyes reappear and he puts one finger on the corner of my mouth. He reaches to my eye and wipes a tear.

"Christine, listen to what I am saying! Girl, you must hold still!"

"Erik's fault, Erik's fault—"

His tone is simply sad.

"Erik's fault, Erik's fault!"

"Listen!"

"Erik's fault--"

But I cannot listen, I cannot hold still because she cannot hear what I am hearing! Erik's voice is crashing in my ears, almost like a chant, over and over again, "_Erik's fault, Erik's fault!" _while I scream and scream and scream.

--


	29. Pain II

--

My baby is dead.

Such a perfect little baby he was! He was so tiny, so very tiny, but so very beautiful!

But it was not meant to be.

That is what the midwife told me over and over again as she wrapped up my little son and soothed me. I cried. I couldn't even remember the last time I had really _sobbed_ with sorrow, but now I did. I lamented everything that could have been, and everything that was never to be.

It all went by very quickly. Madame Peluieu told me I could remain at her house until I regained my strength. I did not argue. I was in no condition to go back home in the middle of the night.

I cannot see my son, for he is dead.

Why? Why had he stopped breathing, stopped living for me? How long ago had it been? Oh, God… yesterday I sang to him. Had he already been… gone? Had he even _heard_ me?

As soon as she leaves, I look around weakly for Erik. I feel like I have abandoned him, like he has abandoned me… like we have abandoned each other.

When I close my eyes and turn away, I know he will come. His cold hand lies delicately on my forehead, and I wrench my eyes open.

"You left." I accuse.

"No." he disagrees. "I was here the whole time."

Two tears well up in each of my eyes. "Our baby…"

He hesitates, and then begins to stroke my hair. "Ah. I am sorry."

I push his hand away, half-hoping he will put it right back. Instead, he pulls me up into his arms and carries me to the windowsill.

The window is still open, and the air feels good against my face. The fresh air wakes me up and helps me become alert, and I dig my nails into the coat of Erik's jacket to fight the tears.

"You can cry." he says softly. "Erik did."

I shake my head. "I want to be strong—"

"Silly woman. Tears do not make you weak. Time and again, tears make you stronger."

My eyes apparently take his words to heart as they spill over again. "But _why_?" I sob. "What did I do _wrong_? I took care of him—I would have loved him!"

Erik seems at a loss for words. "Some things," he says unsteadily. "Happen for no reason."

"It's not fair."

He clutches at me. "Of course it's not fair! His face, Christine, did you see his face?"

His tone startles me and I nod fiercely. Yes, I had seen his beautiful, flawless face…

"It was perfect." Erik moaned. "It was perfect."

I realize now that Erik must have been very, very afraid that his child would share the deformity he himself had been cursed with. The thought had never even crossed my mind in all my months of reflecting.

"Why?" he says, echoing me in a mournful manner that I could never aspire to. "Why did Christine have to bear that? For what? More _pain_? How did she deserve that? What did she do? She did… nothing. It was Erik, oh yes, it must have been Erik. Are you punishing Erik?"

I give him a little shake. "Stop it, stop it!"

"You did everything _right_." he whispers. "While I was a miserable excuse for a living thing. I did nothing! What did I have to do? I couldn't do anything, I couldn't—" He takes both of my hands and put them over his chest, "—not when I was scared, I was—" He is crying now, "—so afraid for you, Christine, and I couldn't believe it! I was so afraid to touch you, so confused about what you were telling me! Erik couldn't believe, and now the baby is dead, and it's my fault."

I look around the room, as if there will be a sign telling me what to do. "I never thought of a name." I say, frowning. "I never named my baby." I look up at Erik. "Is that why he died? Did he think that I didn't—didn't care?"

The calmer I get, the more hysterical Erik seems to become. "Why do you say such things?" he asks. "Why must you blame yourself?"

"It is no one's fault." I reply firmly. "No one."

I lean my head against him so I can cry.

He rocks me very preciously and lets his hands relax around mine. When I cry, I can feel him crying too. When I cease, he seems to as well.

"Erik has much he needs to explain." he tells me quietly. "He is sorry for how he has behaved."

"I know."

"No. But maybe you will."

I like how we keep talking, for when there is silence, I remember what has just occurred, and it hurts.

"I am sorry." I say into his shoulder.

"Damn it, Christine, if you apologize for—"

I invent wildly so he will not be angry. "I am sorry—that I screamed! My voice! I didn't mean to…"

I trail off at the expression on his face. It is blank and terribly sad.

"Christine," he sighs. "I love you so much, did you know that?"

I answer in the affirmative.

"I cannot see any pain happening to you. If I see it, I feel it, and I am a horrible man who cannot feel pain when you endure it. I go crazy. But you mustn't say it's your fault. Because that hurts me even more. Do you understand me?"

I think I do.

I fold his mask away from his face and drop it on my lap. "Were you expecting the child to look like you?"

I hadn't meant to ask it so bluntly, but my emotions were scattered enough. He views me through his golden eyes, his gaze flickering back to his mask. "I do not know."

I trace the mask in my hand, aware of Erik's eyes following each movement. "I did not even think of it."

"Erik's deformity is a genetic malfunction." he murmurs. "The chance of the exact same incident occurring in the same genes is slim to none. But… I could not get my hopes up if I thought there was _any_ chance of you being cursed with my burden child."

I almost smack him, I really did. "_Burden_?"

"You wouldn't see it like that." he says calmly. "You are a kind person with a big heart. I am not. I would see all the flaws that you would be too good to catch."

"Believe me when I say I _wanted_ to carry your child!" I say angrily. "Maybe it was soon, maybe I was scared, but I thought I was taking care of my baby! And now he is gone and you talk about _burdens_?"

My voice has risen up at the end, and I suddenly remember the midwife and her helper. Erik looks towards the shut door, but it does not open.

He tries to put me back to bed. "Rest," he says. "I will stay with you."

My fingers tighten and will not budge from around his arms. "You will."

"I will never."

He tries to lift me again, but I bury my face into him with all the force I can muster, and he has no choice but to surrender again. "Christine," he says warningly, but I ignore him.

"Hold me close." I beg, and I can only imagine holding my baby up close as well… the baby I had spent months dreaming of… the baby I now knew that neither of us had been prepared for.

"I…"

"Please don't argue. I love you. I love you. I want you to say you love me."

He says immediately, "I love you more than anything else."

I weep and we hold onto each other like we had never properly touched before. I felt closer to him than I ever had before. Something has changed between us, I believe. It is too soon for me to say that anything good has happened, but I still feel the change. And I know that when I am calmed down, I will be able to assess it properly.

"Promise me thing will get better." I mumble through my tears.

"I promise." he returns. "Erik promises. Time will go on. Things will get better."

"And…" I cannot believe I am bringing this up only an hour or so after my first failed childbirth. "And if we were to have another baby… will you tell me honestly? Would you mind? Could—could we?"

His eyes seek mine.

"Yes." he answers, and his voice is assured and sincere.

_For me_, I tell myself. _He is putting me before himself. He really loves me._

I cry on his shoulder.

"Things will get better." he whispers. "We will go on. I promise. And for you, Erik will keep his promises."

--


	30. A New Idea

--

Life did go on.

It was hard to believe that everything was over when it had gone by so fast. My sorrow was sometimes unstoppable, but weeks went by and I was able to set back into a normal routine that I hadn't accomplished for six or seven months.

Overall, I began to fiercely depend on Erik more so than ever before. He remained distinctly unruffled throughout the whole affair, and without that, I might have broken down.

We never went to live in the house at the edge of town. That was the house where we were to live with our baby, and our baby wasn't here. I couldn't even go to see it; I was sure that in every room I would see shadows of what was supposed to be.

_What was supposed to be…_

The midwife said that the baby had died for a reason. What reason? Why was my baby better off dead than with a loving mother who would have cared for him every single moment?

I did not want to cry anymore around Erik, as he is convinced that any tear I shed is a direct response caused by him, so I hid myself away in my bathroom for many afternoons.

Sometimes Erik would find me there, and I would explain through the door that I was just washing, resting, or anything that would distract him long enough so I could gather myself and greet him with a smile.

Poor Erik. Each day, I think about how I am hurting him, and each day I am too selfish to do anything about it.

I try to be gentle. I offer to sing for him, I sit in his lap to kiss him, I clean and cook like a dutiful, little wife. I was determined my desolation would not affect him.

But he affected me.

He would do little things for me, such as leaving me a special treat at dinner, something he knew I enjoyed. He took to playing all my favorite pieces on the piano as I drifted off to sleep. He gave me a rare and wonderful concert on his violin, made me one of the most fascinating art-work I have ever seen, and never put on his mask.

So I was not exactly hesitant about asking him, but I did dwell on it for some time before I decided it was safe to bring up. We had been sitting in the main room quite a lot lately, where I just sat there and occupied myself. My body felt thin and frail to me, and I was not used to it. But again, I could not possibly mention anything like that to Erik.

He is writing in the corner now, glancing up at me every few minutes. I stay on the little couch, rubbing soothing cream on my hands. I can feel his eyes on me, even when I don't look up.

"Erik," I say finally. "I have been thinking."

He is alert in an instant. "Yes, my sweetest?"

"You said that you wouldn't mind us leaving here."

He is quiet, thoughtful. "I did say that. I will hold myself to it."

"I was thinking… of somewhere we could go…"

"Yes, yes? Tell Erik what you're thinking, do not make him wait…"

I laugh, amused by his tone. Laughing feels nice, like a release. "It's not bad. I just don't know if you will be agreeable to it."

"Come, is Erik so un-agreeable?" he asks, raising one eyebrow. I think he is making fun of me, fooling around.

I ponder, and then say, "It's far away."

He sighs. "Whenever you feel like telling me, dear, I will be listening."

"I was thinking we could move to Sweden."

He is intrigued. He puts down his quill and thinks. "Sweden…?" he murmurs. "You would like to go back to Sweden?"

I nod, eager to expand now that I know he has not crushed the idea yet. "I traveled so much there, I know many places, many towns. They are nice and small. They could be very private, Erik, we could get somewhere where no one would bother us."

He looks impressed. "Once again, you have put a handsome amount of thought into this."

I frown at him, and he leans forward, putting his finger together. "I only meant that you seem serious. You would like to live in Sweden? Where you lived as a girl?"

I nod. "Away from here. If you want to stay in France, that is fine as well. I thought you might like… a change. It's far away from whatever has happened here. No one will know who we are."

I am only babbling now, excited that he is listening and determined to sway him in any way I can.

"It would be quite a long way." he says seriously. "Are you up to the journey?"

"I think so."

"Aha!" he says. "You think so? You must be very, very prepared in your decision. Erik does not want to be halfway there when you assail me with pleas to return here."

"Very well." I say. "We shouldn't go."

I go back to work on my hands and enjoy the silence that has come between us. I can hear Erik's confusion, and his attempt to make things right.

"Fine." he suddenly says grudgingly. "We shall go."

I turn to beam at him, but he is already back to his work.

I really have put endless amounts of thought into this. Sweden is a relaxing place with much freedom—we could live all by ourselves out in the country, where no one will bother us. Erik can be comfortable there.

On a different note, it will be a new place. This home holds many memories; I can name all the wonderful things that have occurred here, but I also am forever haunted by our past. Paris, in general, is now a place that I will not mind leaving. I have adapted to Erik's world, not my own. I want to be wherever he is. Together, we can be in a new place with only fond memories, and a new world all to ourselves.

And I have always missed the sea.

We prepare to leave as soon as we are able.

I fretfully complain about arrangements and the way to go, but Erik takes care of it all for me. He even tells me of the boat he has managed to hire. It will take us from Denmark and across the Baltic Sea to put us directly in Sweden.

It will be a very long journey, Erik is right. I am not so concerned about it. If Erik is not worried, I should not be worried.

I bring very few gowns, knowing the weather is different up there and I will be able to get new material. I have very few personal items, but I manage to put them all in a small canvas sack that ties on top.

Erik puts his violin by the door and says he is ready to go.

I stare at him for several seconds. "Your music." I say. "What about all your music?"

He shakes his head, as if the answer is obvious. "_You_ are my music, Christine. I am bringing you."

"But," I say impatiently. "All of your compositions that you've worked so hard on! You must have hundreds of them!"

"They are worth nothing to me."

I put my hands on my hips, and he watches me lazily, amused. "I want you to take them!"

He sighs. "Christine, if I wanted to take them, I would. But they are not important to me. The only thing I ever worked on for myself was _Don Juan Triumphant_, and you know very well that it is no more."

"What about all the songs you write for me?" I say unhappily. "Are those important to you?"

I live for Erik's music, and I cannot understand why he would leave them here when he has slaved over them for so many hours.

Perhaps he sees something in my eyes, for he comes over and lifts up my chin. "You… want to hear my music?" he murmurs, searching my face. "It matters so to you?"

"You have worked too long for you to simply abandon them all."

He releases me and steps back. "I will take some." he tells me. "I will take a few pieces, if it will make you happy."

My eyes shine. "Oh, it will, I promise!"

I monitor him very carefully as he selects certain pieces and folds them lovingly in his violin case. He looks up at me every few seconds as he does this, looking happy when he sees my smile.

"For Christine." he says softly every once in a while.

The next occurrence that unsettled me was the prospect of taking my wedding dress.

I wasn't sure what to do about it, and I was afraid that if I told Erik I would take it, he would grow angry that I would want such a thing. On the other hand, if I requested that it stay here, he might grow angry that I did not want something of our 'wedding' to keep.

Unfortunately, as I was admiring it and going through a fierce altercation in my head, Erik came to the door and watched me.

I step back immediately and bustle around doing other things, but it is a foolish sidetrack. He tilts his head and fixes me with a reprimanded stare.

I gesture pathetically at it. "Should I take it?"

He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. "That, my dear, is entirely your decision and should not be influenced by me in any way."

"I _want_ to." I say wistfully. "But do I really _need _it? It would just sit somewhere. A keepsake."

"Your decision." he repeats.

In the end, I don't take it. Instead, I carefully have Erik cut off a significant piece of fabric out of it so I will have it wherever I go. I also pull off the little bows I adore so much, wondering if I could sew these on to a different dress.

Erik seems pleased with me. He folds it up and puts it in my bag for me, and then insists that I get some rest. "It's been a long few days." he says. "We will be leaving in less than I week. You must be well-rested."

I see no reason to argue with him, but I ask if he will come in. Lately, I have not wanted to be alone.

But I am looking forward to our adventure now. It will be a new start with my husband, and a new place to grow and adapt to.

"When we go to sleep, we close our eyes, Christine." Erik reminds me suddenly, and I realize I have been staring blankly at the wall for several minutes.

"Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine."

I squeeze his hand and fall asleep.

--


	31. Carried

--

"Don't you want to say goodbye?"

Erik gives me a strange look. "Why?"

I stand by the door. "If you don't have one last look, you'll regret it later."

"I highly doubt it." he sniffs, but he puts down his case and wonders into the other rooms. "Goodbye, room." he calls joyfully. "Erik will miss you dearly!"

I giggle.

"Goodbye, goodbye," he drawls, and his voice changes into a song, so that he is singing to each of the rooms. I give him a minute-- I do love to hear him sing--and then I call, "I think that's fine."

He comes obediently to the door as I glance around the main room one last time. Going over to the bookshelf, I stop by the pile of music. I step forward and grab the topmost sheet-- Erik sighs--and push it into my bag. "I'm ready."I announce.

He takes both of my bags and his violin case. I try to take at least one, and he pulls them both away from me, giving me an exasperated look.

"Fine, you can carry them."I huff, and I go in front of him so I can hold the door.

I feel excited for the journey ahead of us. The grief I still hold inside of me of our lost child dampers my spirit, but I can have hope for our days to come. And I am very hopeful.

I still would be, after all the weeks of travel. But there had been one thing I hadn't counted on...

...the trip was very, very long.

And that was the worst aspect of the entire journey. Everything went according to Erik's plan. The boat he had mysteriously made arrangements with was right on time and departed as soon as we arrived. The motion of the waves made me slightly dizzy; Erik spent most of his time next to me, distracting me with little games and constantly humming a soothing tune.

It grew very cold. Erik seemed rather unaffected by the dropping temperature, but I puller out my warmer undergarments and petticoats, clinging to the heavy. woolen quilt over our bed. By the time we arrived on the chilly shores of Sweden, I was bitter towards this weather, thinking longingly of my Paris.

My poor mood did not last very long.

My Papa and I had lived in Uppsala for quite a while, but we traveled around so much that I am near positive that I have been to nearly every small town in the entire country. And I _remembered _these places.

And I _saw_ them!

We spent most of out trip on foot-- Erik often indulged me as I raced ahead of him, trudging through snow and dirt to get to a certain place that held memories. I found a little church that I recalled faintly, now empty and musty-smelling; I found a little field that I had once sang in, so familiar that it brought laughter to my lips and tears to my eyes; I even recognized a tree I had once fallen asleep under.

"Take it in slowly, love." Erik reminded me after I cried for an hour in a mixture of sadness and wonder when I saw the tree. "You do not want to grow too anxious."

Even now, Erik worries about me. He takes me short distances at a time, and takes great care to see that I get enough food and sleep. Sometimes, when he feels I should be weary of walking, he carries me.

It snows very lightly one afternoon, and Erik carries me so I will not ruin the hem of my dress.

"We should begin searching for a place to live." I say carefully. We had argued only minutes previously after I protested that he needn't carry me like this, for it means he is carrying three bags, a violin case, and myself in his arms (my side was that no person should be forced to carry such a load, regardless of how much they loved me, certainly not through snowbanks, but Erik is unremitting when it comes to getting his way-- and he adamantly wanted to carry me). I am perfectly able to walk myself, and it makes me feel guilty when I know I could be carrying at least one of our packages.

"We are only a few miles in." he answers immediately. "You have the whole country ahead of you to choose from."

"All of it." I agree, watching as little flecks of snow begin to gather on his shoulder. "But I do hope we find somewhere to stay tonight."

"There is a small town coming up." he says gravely. "I daresay we will find you somewhere to rest."

I wrinkle my nose, wanting to ask how he could possibly know that there is a small town coming up... but I have learned that I do not ask why Erik knows the things he does... he just does. My husband is a genius, and he uses his attributes wisely.

As he predicted, we are able to find a little Inn very easily while the snow around us spins with more and more urgency. Upstairs, I glance my window, my fingernails in my mouth.

Erik does not share my concern, but he does say, "I do not think we will be traveling for while. You may sleep in tomorrow, if you like."

I continue to watch the violent storm, and he comes to stand behind me. To see so much snow in this new setting is so strange to me. It is so beautiful... in a sad sort of way.

The white makes a pretty design on the lights sparkling behind it, coming from candles in little homes. The way it materializes almost makes it feel illusory, as if it is a dream. It's so peaceful.

"Christine?"Erik asks, running his hand down my face to grab my attention.

"Look, Erik." I say dreamily. "Look at all the snow."

"You are exhausted." he tells me.

I can tell he wants to pick me up and put me to bed, but I like watching the window. I wonder what it would be like if I had my baby with me now... He would be in my arms, and _I_ would be carrying someone for a change.

My eyes fill with tears at my sorrow, and the beauty of this new world... what an emotional creature I am! I suppose being an actress was a wonderful profession for me!

"You're crying?" Erik asks. "What did I do?"

I laugh through my tears, but I find his face so funny, that I laugh again and again. ""Don't carry me, alright?" I say, pressing my laughter down into my stomach. "You make me feel guilty."

Erik presses his thin lips together. "Tell me what you want, and I will give it to you. You want to walk by yourself?"

I decided to play with him, since he's being so serious. "But I'm so tired..." I say, pulling back and rubbing my fists into my eyes like a child.

He lifts me off the chair and sets me on the bed. He frowns at me, and I know he can tell that I am being deliberate with him. I wonder if he is angry...Troubled by that thought, I seize his collar and cry, "Don't leave me!"

At this, _he_ laughs at me. "What an insufferable woman you are! Crying, laughing, crying again..." He kisses the tip of my nose. "Erik lives for every second you give him. Even the ones that drive him out of his mind."

I like being reassured. His eyes are understanding as he settles next to me, gathering both of my hands into his. "Hush, now. Erik is here. Right beside you, see? He doesn't leave you. He loves you."

"If you love me..." I start, trailing off, watching his face for any emotion.

He waits patiently, perfectly smooth. "Yes?"

I pause. "You'll let me carry _one_ bag?"

He rolls his eyes. "You can carry _all_ of them if you are so desperate! By carrying them for you, Erik was trying to be _nice._"

"Thank you."

He growls. "You may carry one. The lighter one. You mustn't overexert yourself."

I consider that. He has a point. After all, the bags are very heavy.

"Agreed." I say. "I think we should look up in those hills that you said were coming up. Maybe we could find a home there."

"Wherever."

"I would like that very much."

He sits up, interested. "Really?"

"Yes, of course." I say, tilting my head at his sudden energy. "You disagree?"

"No, no." he says, and he smiles. "I have a surprise for you."

I fix him with a stare, and he looks excited. Slightly wary, I ask, "What is it?"

"Ah, you must wait until tomorrow! Or in a few days, if the snow does not stop." He points a finger at me when I open my mouth. "Can you be a patient girl until Erik shows it to you?"

"No." I say, but he simply smiles. When it is obvious he will not tell me, I slump back onto the pillows and close my eyes tightly. I feel him get up, and my eyes spring open as he retrieves a coat and goes to the door. "You said you wouldn't leave!"

"You won't mind." he answers. "I want to go do this now. I will return before you wake, I promise."

I bite my lip. He blows me a kiss. "It is so horrible out there--"

"Go to sleep."

"Erik--"

The door slams shut.

--


	32. Top of the Hill

--

The next morning, the snow has stopped, so Erik takes me on a walk.

"Where is it we're going?" I ask suspiciously when he insists that we leave our packages at the Inn. "We'll be returning?"

He gives me a look that tells me he will not be answering any of my questions, so I clasp my hands together and follow him like a good wife.

I cannot completely swallow my curiosity when he begins to lead me up a tall hill we had seen earlier in the distance. "What's up here? Is it something I would recognize? I don't remember this town at all. Are we staying _in_ town?"

He says nothing, waking in front of me with a determined air.

"I wonder if it will snow while we're walking up. The little path is very slick."

He huffs.

"We're not going _too_ much farther, are we? This is a very tall hill. Are we going to the top? How much farther? I'm just saying because then we should go and get our bags—"

He spins around and cuts me off with a fervent kiss, right on my lips. His breath is cool and steady, although he releases a growl in the back of his throat. When he pulls away, his eyes are alight with fury and desire. "_For God's sakes, woman!"_ he says heatedly. "Will you _please_ be quiet?"

I take my arms away from his neck and smile prettily at him. He seizes my arm, muttering, and pulls me up the hill.

I am quiet for a few minutes, but again, I cannot resist when we pass a few, sweet little cottages on our left. "Erik, where _is_ it?"

"Ten more minutes." he replies shortly.

I maneuver carefully around the snow that has been unsuccessfully scraped off the path. I sigh.

Erik suddenly stops and turns around, frowning under his mask. He studies me, murmuring, "I don't know how you would want this done… but you like surprises, don't you? And you would want it to be a grand scene…" He steps forward, beckoning me with his finger. Spinning me around, he places both of his hands over my eyes.

"What is it?"

Shouldn't he know by now that I am an extremely impatient girl, and I have no time for his silly games?

He walks forward, nudging me gently with his knees so I will walk too. I feel the hill going up a little more, than leveling out.

"What—"

He puts one cold hand over my mouth, and shifts the other over my exposed eye before I can get a peek. It seems that he waits for a substantial moment; one blonde curl tangles in the wind and flutters over his fingers before he slides his hand down.

Erik suddenly seems nervous. "You can look now." he says unnecessarily.

We're at a little cottage, the structure varying of dark browns and whites, complimented with a pale blue. It looks rather empty… but it's in a nice way, as though the capacious areas could be filled with personal touches.

I think I know what it is, but I do not want to guess, in case I'm wrong.

"Whose is it?" I breathe, crossing my fingers in the folds of my skirt.

Erik tries to look as though my reaction won't matter to him. "If you want… yours."

Half of me is terribly exasperated: How in the _world_ had Erik gotten this? Is this where he's been disappearing to the last several nights? It was such a long walk from where we'd been. He hadn't… _killed_ the previous owners, had he? Why had it been such a secret? Did surprising me matter that much to him? Would it _really_ be ours? How long ago had he planned this? Why d—

The other half of me was shining, because Erik had said it could be mine. He had _found_ this for me, and surprised me with it, because he loved me. He wanted my reaction to be perfect, because he wanted me to be pleased with it. And I was, because it was perfect.

I must be waiting too long to answer, and Erik misreads my expression and says, "If not, I can keep looking."

I am too caught up in my own moment; I ignore him. "May I go in?" He releases me, and I bounce up the steps. I hold out my arms to him. "Come with me?"

He follows me, and I take his hand excitedly and all but kick down the door—Erik gives a little smile at my enthusiasm.

It is _lovely_.

It is already furnished with dark wood furniture and dark blue cushions. The rooms are tiny, but they are open, and I love the sensation of space.

Counting quickly, I establish that there is a sitting room, a large kitchen, one bathroom, and three small rooms. These bedrooms are the only rooms not furnished; they each have a bed in the corner, with a tattered quilt. And the largest room, with a larger bed, has a spacious closet with little drawers. I am delighted.

Erik lets me run around and stands there respectfully when I tackle him with a hug.

"Would you like it?" he asks, trying to pry me away from him.

"Erik, you fool, have you not seen me running around in joy for the last few minutes? It's perfect!"

"You could just be saying that."

"Would I really—never mind. I'm not going to argue with you right now."

"Christine, I want to be sure—"

I silence him with my lips, just as he did to me earlier. "For goodness's sakes!" I say, trying to mimic him. "Will you please be quiet? _I love it!"_

He thinks for a minute, trying to decide if he should be angry with me for mocking him. He hesitates, narrowing his eyes, and says, "Alright, wife. I will not doubt you."

I clap my hands together once. "Wonderful!"

He eyes me uncertainly again, not sure if I am using sarcasm or not. "There is no piano."

"We'll get you one." I assure him, although I have no idea how. I was quite sure it would be impossible, actually… but I kept that to myself.

Erik suddenly grins at me. "Erik did well, did he not?"

I touch one masked side of his face. "You are much appreciated."

I think it was impossible in that moment for him _not_ to kiss me, so I allow him to.

But then, I am too excited to see my new home, which I have already fallen in love with, so I fall back and skip around, calling out my plans to Erik as he follows me once again.

"Our room… your study, Erik with all your music… Could this be a sewing room for me? Please? Or maybe a lounge….You can put a shelf up here… and here. And look! We can put flowers in here! They would have to be special… maybe for Christmas?"

Erik interrupts me. "Christmas?"

I nod vigorously, until I turn around and he's still standing there with a baffled expression.

"Christmas is in three weeks." I explain, remembering my little calendar I had thrown in my bag.

He frowns as if he's never heard of such a thing before.

I pause, unsure, and ask, "Do you know what Christmas is?"

He blinks and puts his head to the side irritably. "_Of course_ I know what Christmas is, you silly girl." he sighs impatiently. "But we must put up flowers…?"

"Yes." I answer simply. "We have to decorate in order to celebrate, do we not?"

"Celebrate?"

"Yes, Erik, Christmas! Presents and such. Haven't you ever done that before?"

He shakes his head, and there is a strange look in his eyes that I cannot interpret right now.

"Well," I say determinedly. "You're going to now. We will celebrate and pray and have a special dinner, and I am going to put flowers up!"

"Yes, yes, whatever you say." he replies quickly, and I smile again. In the back of my mind, I am thinking about my poor Erik, who has never celebrated Christmas, never had the joy of a holiday and company to bring his cheer…

"Our new home, Erik! And we're going to put up decorations!"

He looks bewildered. "Why are you so—excited? It's only a house!"

I laugh once, tiptoe over to him, and take both of his cold hands, looking earnestly into his eyes, willing him to see what I was seeing. I pull myself closer to him, and his arms wrap around me, consumed by his sudden desire. "Don't you see, Erik? This is what you've always wanted! What _we've_ always wanted. _We are just like everybody else!"_

It takes him a second…then it dawns on him, and he moans, and kisses me once, twice, over and over.

--


	33. Promise To Grow

--

We go back in town that night to get our bags from the Inn. We stop at a few places, so I can purchase some new blankets for the beds and a few other things I need.

That's when I met Marianne.

How it happened, I do not know… only that the Lord must have graced her to be there for me. Her aleatory appearance was one that I knew instantly would be one of peace and friendliness… She came towards me with open arms and a large smile.

Erik had conveniently vanished about thirty seconds prior to her arrival muttering something about looking for…something… and then he was gone. Turning to find him is when I laid my eyes on the redheaded woman.

"It _is_ you!" she exclaims in perfect French. "Karl, I told you she was the girl!"

A very tall man comes behind her, with bright blonde hair and a sad, little smile. "Calmly, Mari, or she will be frightened."

_His _French is very poor indeed, and he has a terrible accent.

I view her in confusion. This woman had to be near my age, perhaps a few years older, and I didn't understand how she could possibly know me from anywhere.

Maybe my confusion shows on my face, for she says, "I saw you coming down here. You were at the very top of the hill, where that old cottage is, and I wanted to know if you were going to live there. Because—" She beams, revealing her white teeth. "That means we will be neighbors! Well, I would still live quite a bit away, halfway down the hill, by the one other cottage around here, with the old lady, and I have been awfully lonely! I heard you singing down the hill—you have a beautiful voice—and I heard your French! I was born in France, and moved here when I was only fourteen, met my Karl here," She indicates the blonde man at her side, who nods. "And he only speaks Swedish and a little English, so I had to learn. But I'm always so lonely for my home language and now you came—"

"Breathe," Karl reminds her. "Slow. You are frightening her."

I am astonished, but pleasantly surprised. My redheaded friend laughs and inhales through her nose. "I'm Marianne. Who are you?"

"Christine." I reply, and have become a shy little girl again.

"Christine." she smiles. "Oh, we will be best friends!"

Hesitatingly, I smile back.

She walks up the hill with me, stopping when we get to her little home. With a bit of pride, I notice it's not nearly as nice as mine is, although it looks a bit bigger.

"See?" Marianne says. "We are but fifteen minutes away from each other. I go up by your house and have picnics in the summer time. It's been empty for almost three years, after the old owners moved into town."

"No one wanted it?" I ask, slightly concerned.

She tilts her head, thinking. "It was furnished already, and as you found, it's very nice. And it was very expensive."

I frown. I would have to question Erik about that.

Marianne looks at me. "Didn't you buy it?"

I shake my head. "My… husband surprised me with it."

Marianne claps her hands delightedly. "I thought there was someone with you! I couldn't be sure, because I only saw a shadow for a moment, and Karl said I was imagining things. We must meet! Could Karl and I meet you this weekend for supper on Saturday night?"

Her pale face is shining with hope, and as much as I want to say 'yes', I think about Erik.

I hesitate. "I'm not…yes. Yes, that would be wonderful."

I didn't regret it then. Despite the little bit of dread in my stomach as I thought about telling Erik, I was also excited. A day in my new home, and I already had a splendid friend!

I finish walking up the hill by myself in the dark… I knew perfectly well that Erik could get back home by himself, but I didn't know if he was still in the city. Already over halfway up the hill, I decide that if he isn't home, I will go back for him.

When I check all the rooms and discover that Erik indeed is not here, I go to the front door, and he's standing there.

I smile at him. He's such a reassuring sight. I do not like when he runs away from me…

My expression of welcome seems to go unnoticed. "Why can you not go visit _them?_"

"Them?"

"Your little redheaded friend." he growls, and he pushes past me. I shut the door, biting my lip. His reaction is not unexpected, but it isn't exactly what I wanted either.

"Oh, Erik, they are nice."

"They are _human beings_." he stresses. "They are not nice. It is in their nature. And let's see how nice they are to you when they meet your _freak_ of a husband!"

"Don't call yourself—"

"Stop it, Christine. Don't act like you are blind to the horrors men have put upon me. I am a freak. They _call_ me freak. Everyone. Even your _nice friends_."

He exhales in one, low breath and stalks past me into the next room.

I stand in the hallway, my folded hands against my breast, looking disappointedly at the floor. I should never have said that she could come… I had put myself before Erik. No matter how ridiculous he was being, how could I have intentionally threatened him like that?

I cross into the other room, where he is sitting in the little chair. I go over and kneel down to him.

"_I_ don't think you're a freak." I say softly.

There is a bit of a pause. "I know." he answers, just as quietly.

"You saw her coming." I say. "You didn't have to leave. She could have just met you straight out."

"That is what I wanted to avoid." he says, not looking at me. "I would prefer if I never had to meet anybody, ever."

I narrow my eyes. "Heaven forbid if you should meet anybody else in your life! It's a shame for all the people you've had to encounter so far!"

He stares blankly for a moment, and then gives a small smile. "It is so very hard to stay angry when you are making fun of me." he says.

"Well, I wouldn't have an ulterior motive at all." I agree, sitting down next to him on the small chair. "When you're angry, I wouldn't want to distract you from your anger."

His yellow eyes are piercing. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but you are… quite distracting."

"Tell me what you want me to do." I say stoutly, determined that we will work this out. "I can go to Marianne and tell her this weekend is too soon. You can leave before she comes and I will make up an excuse."

His closes his eyes tightly. "Why would you do that for me? It's not what you want."

"I want whatever will make you comfortable." I argue. "And I shouldn't have accepted an invitation without first consulting my husband."

He is already shaking his head before I am even finished. "You are free to do whatever you choose. I have no hold over you in that way. If you would care to invite your friends for supper, I should not stop you."

"You are my hus—"

"And you are my wife. And I love you. And I want you to do what you want. Now you must honor me."

"You win." I sigh, and he chuckles.

"Of course I do, darling. Erik cannot be defeated."

"Marianne is coming. She will be here at the end of the week."

"Yes, she will. And I will not."

_It is his choice_, I remind myself, and I say nothing against him. I can tell Marianne that he is in town, or he is traveling for a few days… I will protect him, because he has always protected me.

And maybe, someday, I can open Erik up enough that he will be willing to come with me, fulfill my desire for companionship when I go for walks or in the public view; but for now, I am content to please him, to guard over him to see that he grows properly and confidently in his new life.

Because all of his past, all of his horrors, are not his life anymore.

_I_ am.


	34. One of a Kind

--

Marianne is one of the most exuberant people I have ever met.

She comes early, with Karl trailing dolefully behind her. She gives me a flat piece of wood carved into a little girl wearing a flowered wreath—"A house-warming gift."—and a jar of sweets. She has never been in here before, and she instantly proclaims that this is the nicest cottage she has ever seen in Sweden. She talks about the quality of all the furniture, and mentions that the previous owner was a doctor.

Within fifteen minutes of her arrival, Marianne has been in every room… and she asks, "Where is your husband?"

"He's had to travel." I say apologetically. "He is into architecture, and works in many places. He received a letter asking for his presence in Russia. He will most likely be gone several weeks."

Even during my rehearsed speech, I am amazed at how comfortable the lie is. For a moment, it makes perfect sense that Erik would be away, and I am left to explain his absence. Marianne looks at me sadly. "Poor dear! That is far away. And right after you get your new home, too!" She sighs.

Luckily, she does not ask again.

I learn quickly that Marianne regards any moment that she is not talking as a moment wasted. It doesn't bother me; On the contrary, I like when she fills the silence. The only voice I have heard in forever is Erik's, and he doesn't talk much at all.

It feels nice to be normal again. I like having company over that I can entertain, that I can smile and laugh with. The only thing missing… I would dearly love it if Erik were next to me, greeting and meeting as well… but I know that is not possible. My husband belongs in a different world, a world that he has created. I am more than happy to go into his… but he cannot come into mine.

Marianne talks all through dinner, while her husband sits quietly and smiles. He is a dear fellow, but nearly the opposite of his young wife. He seemed a little shy at first, but now he listens intently and often chats through Marianne.

"Karl used to be in woodwork." Marianne tells me. "But he wasn't very good. And then he tried cooking, too. He's a good cook, you know, but not enough for the business. But now we get along alright."

I suppose I learned much about Marianne that first night. I muse over this after she leaves, wondering if I contributed enough, wondering if I was a nice host, wondering if she'll want to come over again…

Erik is sitting in the main room when I come back in after closing the door, sitting in the chair so naturally that if seems as though he's been there the whole time. "She seems very friendly for you." he comments, his fingertips together.

I smile. It is so nice to see him again, even though it has only been a few hours. You see, perhaps it is because I have been constantly around him for almost a year, but it is like we've grown too attached. I know we are two very different people, but in our hearts we are one, and even having him parted from me for a short time makes me nervous and hoping to see him soon. Perhaps it is not such a good thing… but it is true. And I am happy when I am with him. Because we are one, and I never want to leave him… We belong together, forever… Fate put us together for a reason, and see how everything has worked out…

But I am getting carried away. I am thinking of love and Fate, and I was supposed to be telling Erik about Marianne!

"She's very welcoming." I agree. "I do like her a lot."

His forehead crinkles. "So, you will be having her over again?"

Reading his expression, I slowly nod.

His forehead clears. "That's fine, dear. I do not mind." His face is blank. "I will be… gone again."

I should have known then what sort of hole Erik was digging himself into. I should have been able to see that all he really needed was a little push, a little support in the right direction. But I let it go, because I thought that there was no use arguing with him at the moment.

Despite the snow and the chill, Marianne and I went on a picnic on the other side of the hill. She had food in a little brown basket, which she admitted she had made herself when she was a girl. That's how we started talking about clothing and sewing, so that then we were talking about the price of yarn and ridiculous shop-keepers, and then mean people and why they were bitter.

She was very easy to talk to.

"My mother was bitter." Marianne says. "Seven children to feed, with a husband that left her right after the youngest was born—I was number five—for a pretty woman. I had to help take care of the baby, wash the clothes, and keep the milk jug when I was only eight!"

I laugh with her. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to grow up in a house with seven children. "Did you like having so many siblings?"

She wrinkled her nose a little, and then winked. "I suppose. Laurent died when he was only 12, and he was one year older than me. And Germain moved out and married right after my father left, because he was already nineteen. But I loved them all. I liked the two younger ones, especially. I always took care of them. I do love children." She gave a very great sigh.

I feel awkward, as if she had suddenly dwelt on something very sad, and she must see the emotion on my face.

"I've had two miscarriages." she says gently, her eyes wide and sincere. Indeed, it is the first time I have not seen her with a bright smile on her face. "They were very close together. It was very—sad, I suppose. But it was all for the best. I have two stones by a tree to remember them by. They were both boys, I know they were."

And she shows them to me the next day, perhaps half a mile from her cottage. It's a tall tree, currently covered with snow, and two little bricks at the bottom.

I tell Erik about it later, and he doesn't like it at all.

"Holding onto the past achieves nothing, Christine." he says, oddly serious.

I curl my fingers. "I know. But it was a nice thought."

He shakes his head. "Why make it harder to move on by tethering reminders for yourself every day?" He looks at his hands. "Not a wise move, I say."

"But our baby—" I begin.

"Is gone. Never was. Oh, Christine," he sighs, catching the look on my face. "How can it mean so much to you, even now? It was not your fault. Do you really crave a child that much?"

"No." I say, and I meet his eye. "I just felt bad… as if I hadn't done enough for my own baby…"

Erik soothes me, and I know he is right. But later, I find a tiny tree far back from our own home, and put a pure white stone against the rock. Erik will not find it, and if he does, he will not understand… I still have no name for my unborn child, no dreams that I had wanted to live with him. _Him_…? Was my baby a boy? Yes, he had been my son for the breifest of seconds, before the midwife had taken him away...

I didn't have a stone for him.

Marianne did not know of my own brush with losing a child, and I did not tell her. I did not want to make her sad, and I felt it was a very personal sorrow, something only for Erik and I.

Marianne and I went on walks in the woods, shopped together in the little town below us, and tossed snow back and forth whenever we passed a large pile. A heavy snowstorm prevented us from seeing each other for nearly a week, until I found Marianne soaking wet at my door, having trudged up the hill for nearly a half hour, determined to give me something she had made.

It was very nice to have a friend.

Now, if I could only get Erik to have one as well…

--


	35. Gifts and Surprises

--

Exactly two days before Christmas, I ask Erik if he is going to get me a present.

He looks up from his papers and frowns. "I gave you a house!" he answers, and there is a sulky note in his voice. "Is that not enough?"

I giggle, think for a moment, and say, "I suppose that's quite enough."

But I know that it is not enough for Erik. If he does get me something—and I am fairly sure he will—then I will surely feel bad if I do not have something to give him as well. He may not like it, or he will tell me something about how I am enough for him, but I would dearly love if I could give him his first present in his life.

Nothing in the shops will do, of course. Erik would not need any of that. And I couldn't make anything of value, and I certainly didn't want to embarrass myself. I spend several hours thinking about something, until I went down into town to think and get ideas.

When I found it, I wasn't sure. It was dreadfully simple, and not very personal at all. So I took it to an engraver, which helped. But then I couldn't pick it up until tomorrow, and that was Christmas Eve. I walked back home, a little worried that it wouldn't be ready in time. I went in our cottage, wringing my hands and still lost in thought.

Erik must see my nervousness, because he is watching me like a hawk. "Something bothering you?"

"No." I say.

Erik laughs. "What a little liar you are! Come sit next to me."

I step lightly over and sit beside him. Unfortunately, he knows that when I am hiding something, I do not like to be touched. His arm slithers out and fixes firmly around my waist. Pulling me closer, he puts his lips to my ear. It's a pleasant feeling, despite the fact that I am terrified he will make me blurt out what I am getting him.

"Now, sweetheart," he purrs. "Erik knows you are not hiding something from me, right?"

I squirm. It's really not fair when he uses that tone with me. It's hard to lie to him when he does that. "Of course I am, Erik." I murmur back. "But if I told you, wouldn't that spoil the surprise?"

He pulls back, confused. "Surprise?" His eyes suddenly narrow, and he looks quite intimidating for a moment. "I do not like surprises."

I give my trademark pout. "Not even from me?"

"Hmmm."

I touch the side of his face. "It's a surprise from me. You'll like it." I internally cringe, What if he _doesn't_ like it? What if he interprets it the wrong way? I think for a moment, trying to find any ridiculous 'hidden meaning' he could find in it. Besides, he had kept the surprise of a whole house for however many days; I could surely keep the very small surprise of a-- well, I mustn't even think about it. Erik might read my mind when he is so close.

Erik touches the corner of my eyes. "You are so adorable when you think." he muses. "You were out in town for a very long time. It was dark out. Erik almost came after you."

I move my head. He probably did. "Well, I'm glad you didn't."

His eyes blaze a little again. "Why not?"

I give an irritated huff at the naiveté of the man before me. "I said it was a surprise, Erik! That means you can't know what it is yet!"

"But why do I get a surprise?"

I glare at him. "_Christmas _is a time to give things to the ones you love. It is a very simple rule. You are not exempt from it."

He opens his mouth, appears to think for a moment, and then fixes me with a very dark stare indeed.

"Fine." he says. "But perhaps I won't like it."

"Perhaps you will." I suggest.

"Erik has never received a present before."

I beam at him. If it will be his first present, shouldn't he be overjoyed? "Then this present shall be extra special, and you must be good about it and accept it."

He really looks very sulky, and I'm not sure why. Does the idea of getting presents offend him that much? Or does he simply not know how to cope with the thought of actually getting a present? I do not like the little looks he is giving me. I try to mimic him, hunching my shoulders, turning down my mouth, and crinkling my eyes. When I mock him, it either produces a very negative response, or an appreciative chuckle. I hope for the latter.

"Christine!" he says in a sighing manner. "Did you know you are so very beautiful?"

I blink a few times. I didn't realize that frowning and looking moody qualified as beautiful in his books. "What were we talking about?"

"Surprises," he answers absentmindedly, stroking my hair. "You were talking about surprises."

I let him be quiet for a moment. I can tell he is thinking when his eyes get all distant, and it seems that he is not focusing on anything. The top of his forehead crinkles, and now I can tell he is _really_ thinking.

But then he seems to shift, and his gaze turns to me and he smiles.

"We were talking about how you are beautiful, my dear."

Erik's hands are cold.

I do not lie when I say this. His hands are like ice. I do not always understand how it is possible, even when his hands have been in gloves for hours. It is one of the many peculiarities of my husband that I accept and embrace. It is not exactly a desired trait… Sometimes, if his hand falls on me at night, I shiver. Erik notices. Always. And then he'll turn away.

But it is not his fault. So I cannot fault him for it. Instead, it just one more thing to make him _mine_. If I came home one day, and his hands were suddenly warm, I would feel cheated. He wouldn't be my Erik anymore.

His hands are cold under my chin, and I don't mind anymore.

His lips are warmer—still cold, mind you—but warmer. His neck is warmest, and when I lean my head against it, I can hear his heartbeat, as if it's trying to prove that it can heat its owner's body as well as it can.

His heartbeat has always been so fast; it used to worry me. But why worry when I have no control over it?

Other things I have control over…

I pull his face closer to mine so I do not have to lean up so much, and it is easier to wrap my arms around his neck.

"Christmas," I say, and I can tell Erik does not like our lips being parted. "Is a time for you to show people how much you love them."

"And presents." he breathes, and I laugh.

"Presents don't come until two more days, although at the Opera, the ballet girls and I would open one on the eve before."

I frown upon this thought. I do not have another gift for Erik.

But he hardly notices my sudden demeanor. His face is against my cheek, and he is hopefully pulling on the sleeves of my dress.

The room is chilly, and the fire Erik had previously lit in the fireplace has cooled down to mere embers. The candle on the front table still burns brightly, but I know that it, too, will soon burn out.

We could go upstairs… but it is nice down here, by the dying fire and the scent of its smoke. I am in this room often, I enjoy spending time in here with Erik, as he is so often in his little study. I miss him. I don't think this ever occurs to him, while he is working, that there might be someone out there who is missing him. He has mentioned before how he misses me every second he is away from me.

Ironically, it is hardly ever _me_ who goes away, It is him.

So I appreciate time with him, here.

In our little home. I love our little home. It is perfect, just as Erik knew it would be.

I see the shelves in the dying shadow of the candle in the hallway, and I can see the outline of the decorative flowers I put up for the holidays. I must water… I must remember to water them tomorrow.

But now, Erik is being a little distracting.

I give a chaste kiss of defeat as I lean back, pulling him with me.

"Alright." I say, taking his hands and wrapping them around me. "You may have one gift tonight."

--


	36. Music Again

--

It really wasn't a big deal in any way. All Eve, he had been giving me little treasures, most of which he had made. I had mine in a velvety, red bag that I had tucked away upstairs. I mostly wanted to spend time with him. More so than all his tangible items he was bestowing upon me, the present I valued most was his companionship and his conversations.

Right after dinner, he shows signs of wanting to go into his music room, so I quickly stop him and put the little bag in his hand.

"It's very small." I say. "I didn't think you would want anything big. But I thought you might like it. For our first Christmas."

"Our first Christmas." he repeats. He tilts the bag a little so it rolls out in his hand.

He stares at the little golden ring for several seconds.

I twist my hands together, and look down. My cheeks are flushed. I count to ten in my head, and then look up.

He is staring at me blankly, the ring still in the center of his outstretched hand. I couldn't read his expression, and I was certainly not prescient. And now I was terrified by his lack of reaction.

"I wasn't sure if it was the right size." I admit. "There were only a few choices."

"No, no," he says hastily. "It's fine. The ring. It's fine. Perfect. Fine."

Despite his reassurances, he still does not put it on.

I am far too used to this to be too much perturbed, so I say brightly, "Thank you for all my gifts. Happy Christmas!" And then I cannot resist, and I ask, "Do you like it?"

"It's fine." he snaps. "I said it was fine, didn't I? You _must_ learn to listen, girl." After a slight pause, he adds in a gentler tone, "Happy Christmas."

And he disappears rather abruptly into the door behind him.

So I lean against it, and listen to his violin.

I think about what I am feeling; when I was with Erik for the first time, I would have used this blessed opportunity to go back to my room. A few months ago, I would have cried and wondered what I had done wrong. But now I just sit… I just sit and appreciate the music he is giving me.

Thus, my first Christmas with Erik took place with us in separate rooms, while I drifted to sleep on the floor.

Neither of us mentions it next week, and I finally understand that it really isn't a big event. Erik did not know how to celebrate Christmas, and he did not know how to react to something being given to him. He was not rude; he simply had no prior knowledge on how to react.

He was cheery the next morning, so he held nothing against me. He simply couldn't understand why I had made it such an occasion.

I would not make that mistake in the future.

During the week, nothing eventful happens, except for Marianne falling into a five foot pile of snow, until one day, Erik comes in and announces that he is going to build a piano.

"_Build_ a piano?" I laugh. "Why, Erik, you can't do that!"

He gives me a sulky look. "Yes, I can."

"But how are you going to get all the parts?" I frown. "The wood, and the music?"

He rolls his eyes. "The _music_? Please be serious."

"You know what I mean."

He stands over me, his expression very dominating. "If I say I can build one, then I can!"

"Of course!" I agree instantly, watching the flames in his eyes flicker and die. "I know you can. You can do anything."

He kept himself very busy, disappearing into his study for hours at a time. Once, he disappeared from home for three days—if her were anybody else, I would have been distraught and hysterical—but then he returned home, carrying something in a leather sack, and going straight to his room.

Marianne was over once while Erik was making a lot of noise in the room, and rather than try to hide it when her eyes grew curious, I say quickly, "That's just Erik. He's home—working."

"Oh, how wonderful!" she says exuberantly. "Perhaps I could meet him later."

"I—I suspect he will be very busy. For a long time." I tell her, turning away.

Marianne looks at me painfully.

"You really don't want me to meet him, do you?" she asks.

I shake my head. "_I_ would love it if you met him."

She suppresses a bit of a grin at my enunciation. "But he doesn't want to meet me?"

"Not _you_." I correct. "He just doesn't want to meet _anybody_."

"Ah." she says. "Karl is like that, too."

I want to say that Karl is not like Erik at all—Karl is sweet, thoughtful, and very handsome for starters—and that I doubted that if Karl began behaving like Erik, he would not be allowed in the house.

I confront Erik later.

He is in the hallway, and I stand in front of him, my hands on my hips.

"I've decided you are going to meet Mari and Karl." I say in my sternest voice. "There is nothing you can say to change my mind. I'm going to tell them the truth, and you are going to be kind and courteous to both of them, and not mention anything degrading about yourself or your appearance. Are you even listening to me?"

He puts one slender finger to his lips, and says, "Hush." He gives a very small smile and holds out his hand.

I look suspiciously at him. He holds it out. I see no ring.

But I take his hand, and he pulls me into the music room.

"Look." he croons. "Look what your Erik has made for you. For us."

I like the way that he says _us_ so much, that I have already decided to forgive him by the time I am in the room. He takes me to the corner and draws back a curtain.

"Close your eyes." he cautions, and I suddenly know what it is, and I tremble with excitement.

"May I open them now?" I ask happily, and I move closer, where I know it is at. Amazing… Erik truly is amazing…

The tiny piano sits flawlessly in the corner of the room, looking forlorn and unused.

But not for much longer, I know.

Erik looks like a proud little child who has just done something wonderful that merits praise. So I kiss him on his cheek, half astonished, half thrilled, and ask him to play for me.

"Erik!" I exclaim, over and over. "How did you do it? You made a piano!"

He looks a little smug as he sits down and plays one of my favorite pieces. How wonderful it is to hear the piano after all this time! For the past weeks, Erik has only been playing his violin. Oh, I love Erik's violin!—but there is something about it. When he plays it, his melodies are so mournful, so sorrowful, that it makes me very sad. But when he plays the piano, it's simply beautiful.

His tune crosses the bridge and goes into a different melody, transposing into something I find vaguely familiar. He watches me with analytical eyes.

"I know this song…" I offer, trying to think back to when I heard it.

"Yes." he replies seriously. "I played this for you once. Sometimes, I think you didn't appreciate it then… but you do now."

I smile at him, my heart welling. It is Erik's fourth song. The last one of the tunes he played for me that one evening under the Opera. The ones that had confused me to no end…

"You weren't listening." he states, his finger never leaving the keys. "Do you remember?"

Yes, I could remember. The first song spoke of gentleness and tender feelings, when he first came to know of me. The second was how he'd seen us then—still struggling, still learning, but still beautiful. The third had been his passions, his secret desire when I was still a dead bride to him… and I had been so distraught over that one, that I had hardly listened to the last song, the song that he said was the future… the song that would be us, someday…

But I listen now.

"I told you, Christine," he says honestly. "I told you we would be happy someday." And his notes are happy, beautiful and serene, flowing together in perfect intervals up the scale.

I look at his empty finger, more determined than ever that _my_ ring will go on him, so that he will belong to me as surely as I belong to him.

But there is time for that later. Now—and I can tell by the victorious look in Erik's eyes—it is time to sing.

--


	37. Persuasion

--

Erik really only sleeps a few nights each week, and when he does, I know better than to disturb him. Blinking often wakes him up, and once he's up, he can't go back to sleep.

The funniest thing about this is that Erik _thinks_ he doesn't need sleep. I'll admit that he really does seem to have a higher tolerance for no sleep than other men, but I do not think he's really as nocturnal as he looks. He tells me he doesn't sleep for days, sometimes weeks… one time I found him in his study, sleeping over his books… and when he woke up, he hadn't even realized he'd been asleep, no matter what I said to him. He solemnly argued that he had been awake the whole time.

Tonight, he is tired—he s_hould_ be tired, at least—but he is restless and moving around quite a bit. Every now and then, he releases an agitated sigh.

"Erik," I say softly, my eyes closed. "What do you think about Marianne coming over to meet you?"

He shifts over so he is staring at the ceiling; I can see his eyes sparkling in my head, and I know they are probably narrowed. "I think that my answer has not changed since the last time I gave it to you."

"But Marianne is my friend now." I protest. "I am comfortable to tell her about the mask so she won't be surprised, and then she can meet you."

"Why are you bringing this up now?" he demands. "What have I done?"

It provides a strong insight into Erik's life when he thinks that being exposed to new people is a punishment. "A few weeks ago, Mari asked to meet you." I reply quietly. "I told you that you would later, but ten you showed me the piano, so I don't think you were listening to me."

"You never said such a thing." he says brusquely, and I give a patient sigh. Erik was understandably sidetracked at the time, so I would forgive him with good grace.

"I would like you to think about it." I say one last time. "For me?"

"_No_." he answers. "Not for you. This isn't about you. It's about Erik, and you are not Erik. Do not force him. You _cannot_ force Erik."

I say nothing else that night.

But I am still determined that he will meet my only friend and make a proper connection.

But the next day, he reacts in the same way. I faintly recall the last time we had a standing argument like this; it had been over the issue of moving to a new home. It had been accomplished, but at a terrible price…Erik had only given in because of the loss of my child, I was certain. He would not fall so easily this time.

"Do not act naive, Christine." he growls. "Do you think my mask will be the only thing that frightens your young friend? I am a frightening creature! People should be frightened of me, not _friendly_!"

"Do you want people to be frightened of you?" I ask patiently.

"Yes." he answers promptly.

I push him in the shoulder, and he turns to face me with genuine surprise, looking quite bewildered at the anger on my face. "How dare you? You complain how people hate you, but then you admit you want them to hate you?"

He advances on me, fury beginning to pour from him. "I did not say _hate_, you foolish girl, I said _fear._ Those who hate must not live in fear. And you, Christine! You fear me, do you not? And yet—you do not hate me, I do not think. You say you do not hate me, but you are frightened of me—" His voice becomes a gentle purr, wildly deceptive. "—now, I can see it in your eyes, you are frightened, because I am coming near to you, like so… What do you think your little friend would do, when I came towards her like this? Would she say, "Wonderful to meet you, Erik, do tell me about yourself?"? No, my little pet, she would run… rightly so, for you should…"

I stand my ground, refusing to show any emotion on my face until he is standing right next to me, and his cool breath flutters over my face. He is watching me closely, but I play his game, and stare him down.

"There." he says. "I must commend you on your self control, but Marianne will not be so welcoming, I can assure you."

I drop all pretenses. "_Please—_"

"Be _quiet_, woman!" he yells disjointedly, and disappears into the other room. I stood there, trying to decide, knowing I had to choose my battles carefully with Erik… before I turning on my heel and going into my room.

Perhaps I shouldn't have pushed him so… perhaps it was my fault, in the end.

But at that moment, I was only trying to help, and I knew Marianne would not judge him as other's had. I wanted him to be happy, and I wanted him to be _social._ His dreams were of a perfect couple like everyone else, no? But while he dreamed of it, he had trouble putting it into practice. I wanted to help him achieve it. I wanted to help.

On a more selfish note, I would hate it if a friend of mine constantly had an excuse to have her husband out of sight. I didn't want Marianne to think I was hiding something, or didn't trust her enough to have her meet him.

Besides, Marianne is nice and loquacious, and I think she could win Erik over if she just had the chance. I couldn't think of a single time where she seemed uncommonly sad or unhappy.

That is, until the next day when Mari shows up on my doorstep with red eyes and a crumpled letter in her hands.

"Mari!" I exclaim. "What ever is the matter?"

She clutches the paper to her chest for a moment. "I'm so sorry." she mumbles. "Oh, I will miss you… and you will miss me…" She takes a deep breath. "Karl's mother is ill. She has been sick for a long time, and the doctor's don't think she'll last must longer. Karl _must_ go to her… He is her only living child now, and he doesn't want her to be alone. But they didn't get along very well, and I don't wish to send him to Norway on his own…"

"Of course, you must go with him." I agree fervently, and she looks up at me with troubled eyes.

"I do not want to go to Norway. I have met Karl's mother once, at our wedding, and I do not like the woman. She has been sick for such a long time, that she could have died years ago, and it wouldn't have been a surprise. I do not know anyone in Norway. I do not have family in Norway. I will not have friends in Norway." She shakes her head. "But I must go with my Karl. He needs me, and I need him. So we are leaving."

Like they always have been, my reactions usually do not overcome me in moments that shock me; they sink in later. So now all I can do is listen to her, and nod my head in agreement. "Yes, you must go. When are you—leaving?"

"Not until summer." Marianne says, looking down at her feet. "I made Karl agree to that. He wanted to leave as soon as spring begins, but I beat him down. His mother can last that long, and if she cannot, then better for us, I say."

"We have until summer, then." I say consolingly, and she nods a little, glancing around at the ground. I open my mouth to say more, to offer my condolences, to ask how Karl is doing, but she interrupts me quickly, as if she doesn't wish to speak of it anymore.

"The snow is nearly gone." she says chirpily. "Would you like to go on a picnic?"

I can tell she wants to spend time with me right now, and she needs me. After all, I am her only friend as she is surely mine. She waits outside while I hurry in to pack a few necessities for a supper snack.

I half expect Erik to be in the hallway, listening to the whole conversation, but he is nowhere to be found. I quickly write him a note to say I am going out with Marianne, and then pull a bit of food from the counter and push it in a little pink basket.

"Erik?" I call, just in case he is hiding away somewhere. "I'm going out to eat with Mari."

No reply.

"Erik?" I repeat. He must be out. He is quite possibly still angry with me. I drop the letter on the front table, where he will be sure to see it.

I take the basket, and leave.

--


	38. Aloof

--

When I arrive home, I drop my little basket in the chair by the door. My eyes drawn to the little table, I see my note still resting there, folded in the same way I had left it. I let out a little sigh and go to collect it; Erik hasn't even come home yet.

Just in case, I call, "Erik, are you here?" There is no answer except for the trees in back, creating vast and towering shadows behind the windows. They sway slightly in the breeze, and I stop, mesmerized, until I shake myself out of it.

I go through the little cottage, leaning into Erik's music room. I have the strangest sensation that he's here, somewhere… I just have to find him.

Looking quickly in the kitchen—not that he'd ever be in there—I go upstairs to change in my room. It startles me when I open the door, because I wasn't expecting him to be there.

He's lying on the bed, starting at the ceiling, with his mask on. I haven't seen him with it on for such a long time now, and it looks very out of place. The way he's laying… he's very, very still, and has his arms crossed under his head. Even when I approach him, he doesn't stir.

I can see the bit of light under his mask from his eyes, and rather than asking if he's awake, I say clumsily, "Hello?"

"Hello." he answers gravely.

I freeze for a minute, utterly bewildered by this new behavior. My mind instantly tries to remember anything I might have done to upset him in the past hour or so. He couldn't have minded me being out with Marianne, could her? And he should have seen my note…

"Why are you lying here, all by yourself?" I ask curiously, and I sit beside him. He still doesn't remove his gaze from his fixed position in the ceiling above.

"Because." he says.

Not sure whether I should throttle him or hug him, I lean over him and look into his eyes. For a moment, he appears to stare right through me, and then he focuses on my face and smiles.

"Erik, you're frightening me." I whine, touching my hand to the upper side of his mask. "Not in a _you are intimidating way, _but in a way _I'm really worried about you_ way."

He smiles again, his eyes going out of focus again. Then he looks back up at the ceiling.

Nervous, I pull off his mask and bring up his face so he will look at me. Before I can say anything, he interrupts with, "I have been thinking."

I throw my hands in the air. "Is that all?"

He frowns at me, very seriously, and I grow very still, like him. He waits for a moment and replaces his mask quietly.

"I will meet your little friend before she leaves."

I stare at him, unwilling to believe him completely while he is in such a funny mood. Putting my pointer finger under his lips, I look at him very closely, staring into his dark eyes. I want him to snap at me, or push me away, but he just remains still and obliges with every pressure I apply to him.

"Erik?" I ask worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"You asked me if I would." he says in reply.

"Yes… and you said no already."

His eyes wander over my face for just a moment. "Yes… well, I changed my mind, it appears."

Something very odd is going on, indeed. His vapid manner unnerves me and chills me at the same time. Compassionately, I want to speak gently to him until he tells me what is the matter, but I also feel like I ought to run away from him, and not look back until his mood has passed.

He looks at me, almost impatiently. "Aren't you happy about that?"

I blink, and nod. "Of—of course! You have no idea how much that means to me." I pause. "And thank you. For reconsidering."

But I do not drop my guard. Any second, I expect him to start laughing and tell me he's only joking. But he doesn't even crack a smile as his eyes turn back to the ceiling. They flutter closed.

"Erik?" I say, trying to play down the hysterical edge to my voice. His eyes fly open, and when they meet mine, they are not kind.

"_Yes_?"

"You're acting strangely…" I murmur, and my hand goes automatically to remove his mask. His cold hand suddenly flies up and seizes my wrist with a firm grip. I stop, shocked, and his eyes burn into mine.

"Leave it." he hisses.

I instantly drop my hand, but it remains in the air, suspended by Erik's cold fingers. I watch fearfully, until he carefully releases me and looks back up at the ceiling. Shocked, I pull both my hands back quickly and go to my closet. He doesn't look at me.

My eyes still on him, I undress into my nightgown and take the pins out of my hair. I lie down slowly beside him, struggling with the covers that are tucked under him. When he appears as if he's never going to move again, I flop down with a sigh and loosely touch his hand.

He jerks away. "Do not _touch_ me."

I pretend that his words do not sting. "I'm sorry." I whisper.

He slides over and is up, towards the door, in a flash. I am usually very fond of the way my husband move; he walks in a style all his own, and I have never seen a human being move faster. But tonight, I wish he didn't walk so… quickly.

I stare at the empty room, and it stares back at me.

_You've made him angry…_

I don't understand. What did I do? Why is he upset?

_Come find me_, seems to call to me from the outer area beyond my room. Leaving Erik alone in this state isn't a good idea, not matter how peculiar we are. Sometimes, when Erik is quiet, he just wants to be heard.

I pad lightly into the hallway, listening for the direction he might have gone in. I stand outside the main room, where he is just sitting in his chair. Just sitting, rigidly still, all by himself.

I go and sit next to him. Without saying anything, I lay a timid hand on top of his, and wait. Patience… that's all I need.

He sighs. I can tell he thinks I am annoying, coming to pester him again when he so clearly wants to be alone. "You should be in bed…" he murmurs.

"So should you."

He pauses, and shakes his head a fraction of an inch. "I'm just thinking." he tells me, and he sounds almost normal again. I breathe a half-hearted sigh of relief.

"What at you thinking about?" I ask, and he gives me a quick glance. In that moment, he seems very old to me—as if he's had a lifetime of suffering and sorrows that he could never express to me, and they've all seemed to come upon him now.

"Nothing you would understand." he replies curtly. "Please go back to bed, my sweet. Erik will handle everything in the morning."

"Handle what?" I ask, but his hands are already pushing me back upstairs. I so hate it when he pushes me away like that…"You're really frightening me now. Has something happened?"

"Of course not! Can I not stop and think without my wife hassling me, like any other man?" His clicks his tongue. "You are the one acting strangely. I am really quite normal, you know. I have never been better. Just like everyone else."

I become aware that my mouth is hanging open, just a bit, and I close it silently as he looks down at his hands, which are turning in his lap.

"I think…" he muses. "It's because of you, of course… only because of you. Would I ever have dared before? I do not think so. No, it's just you… and it's just me turning it into such an event…"

"_Erik_!" I say exasperatedly, and he looks surprised, as if he didn't know I was there.

"Did I not tell you to go to bed?" he says crossly. "I'll speak with you in the morning!"

I whisk out, brimming with annoyance and fear. Oh, he is so impossible! What is he talking about? Surely nothing too serious, or her would have been grateful for my presence. I didn't seem as though he were mad at me, although I would rather him be angry at me than himself.

I creep back to my room, listening for any sounds back in the main room, any evidence that he is following me. It's still eerily quiet.

"He said nothing was wrong." I remind myself very softly under my breath. "Don't overreact, Christine, you know how he hates that…"

Did he see something today? Did I do something unknowingly that created these strange emotions in him. I struggle, desperately wanting to go back down to say something…anything…but I feel that Erik's word was final; he wants me in bed.

When I fall asleep, I try to think about what he may be thinking of, but my mind is blank. I cannot think of a single thing that would put him in such a black mood right now.

I do not sleep well that night. Or the night after that. Or after that.

--


	39. Recession

--

I should have been proud of Erik, but I was only confused. Why do it in the worst way possible? He could have given me a moment to warn Marianne. Just so she wouldn't have stared.

But my husband is an unfathomable man—and slightly mad, although I do believe I have restored him to a modicum of sanity.

My eyes lock on his for the briefest of seconds as he comes down the path, straight towards where Marianne and I are gathering flowers for my kitchen. Maybe it's because I rarely see Erik next to another human being, but it's as if I am suddenly struck by how intimidating he is; he is tall and frightfully thin, with that mask covering nearly everything but his eyes, which glimmer strangely in the shaded light.

I watch Marianne, and she sees him almost instantly. For a minute, I'm afraid that she won't know who it is, and pass him off as someone else, and then I shall have to explain that it's Erik, who he has been hiding… but I see her eyes widen, and I know she knows that it's my husband.

Erik can tell she knows him too, and a bit of odd triumph flashes in his eyes.

_Erik… what are you doing?_

Marianne attempts to recover herself with a vestige of grace. Bringing her hand out, as if gesturing to him, she says, "Hello?"

Her voice quivers, and Erik notices this. I see the corners of his mouth turn up, and I realize he has planned this moment for a long time.

A flash of hurt comes first, then fear, and then settles on anger as I watch him appraise Marianne. "Hello." he answers back, and he is using the full effect of his voice on her… he was only supposed to do that to _me_…

I can tell that Marianne was not expecting that voice to come out of Erik, and she reels backwards slightly, looking to me for support. My lips are pursed, and I glare at Erik. He gives me an innocent look.

"You…you must be Erik!" Marianne offers, going forward properly, to shake his hand. But at the last second, it seems she cannot bring herself to do it, and she falter inches from him, her hand halfheartedly buried in her other fist.

But Erik reaches out boldly and seizes her hand with a crushing force. I see her wince at the coldness of his grip, but she smiles—rather painfully, but at least she tries.

"How nice to finally meet you!" she tells him, her tone still over-friendly, her eyes still flickering to me. "I've heard… about you."

I know she must stutter over saying, "I've heard _so much_ about you!", because I hardly mention Erik at all.

"Yes." Erik murmurs. "You are a good friend of Christine's."

She nods, and tried to pry her hand from his grip. He holds tighter, almost leering at her… and I snap, "Erik!"

He releases her instantly, stepping back politely. Marianne retreats several feet, and I cannot blame her as she comes to stand by my side. Her smile is a bit plastered now, and she glances worriedly at me.

In my mind, I know what he's doing… but I ignore it, and put my hands on my hips. He gazes at me, as if he cannot see the fury in my eyes, or the confusion. He smiles at me, and focuses on something behind my shoulder.

My heart sinks as Karl comes up the curve of the hill, looking for Marianne.

He gives his trademark little smile as he see her, and then he too meets Erik's eye.

He freezes.

"Karl!" Marianne says hurriedly, going over to seize his arm. "This is Erik! Christine's husband, who has been out of town! He's come to meet us!"

Karl can't take his eyes off Erik, and he clutches Marianne's hands protectively to his chest.

I am nervous of Erik's reaction; but he simply steps back another step, away from the young couple. He waves his hand naturally, as if to tell them that he takes no offense.

I try to see Erik as they do, and I can—and I know Erik knows this.

What on earth is he doing?

"Christine was just bringing flowers back to your home." Marianne tells Erik, although she appears to have trouble meeting his eyes. "I must be going, now… Karl must want supper, and he couldn't cook to save his life, you know…" I distinctly remember how often Marianne tells me how wonderful a cook Karl is. "…So, I will meet with you later!"

Karl squeezes her arm, before throwing me a very furtive look. Marianne looks at me desperately. "I will see you tomorrow, Christine!" she calls as Karl leads her down the hill.

I stand there in horror for several still seconds, before I whirl around behind me.

Naturally, Erik is gone.

Leaving my flowers abandoned on the ground, I lift up my skirts and begin running up the hill. The snow is completely gone, and the sun is beginning to set. I do not stray from the path as I go, quicker than I ever have before, up to my little cottage.

I am terrified. And I am furious!

Erik cannot fool me. The look in his eyes told me he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Yet, I didn't understand! Why had he done such a foolish thing! Prancing up like that, unexpected and catching even myself off-guard—he had done it all intentionally, I was sure. And he had frightened her on purpose as well.

I throw open the door, my face set, looking around for Erik. I do not have to look for long. He is sitting, perfectly content, in his chair in the main room. When I storm in, he looks up curiously. His mask is still on.

"What have you done?" I whisper, staring in horror at his calm disposition.

"She seems nice."

My teeth snap together. "Why did you do that? You did that on purpose!"

He looks down, and growls, "I did _nothing_. I greeted her how I would have any other. It is not my fault how she would react." He suddenly rises, his fingers clawing the rests on the chair. "You told me it wouldn't matter! That she would see me as any other man!"

He almost doesn't sound upset; rather, his voice has a triumphant ring to it, knowing that he has proven me wrong.

"If you had _acted_ like a normal man," I retort coolly. "Then she would have seen you as such. But you intentionally frightened her! Why? Why would you do that?" I struggle with words. "Do you _enjoy_ doing that to people? Does it… make you happy? Does it make you proud? I don't understand, Erik… You wanted my friends to accept you, and you went out of your way to make sure that they did not!"

His fingers are curled tightly into fists. "Did you see their eyes?" he hisses. "As soon as they saw me… before I even spoke! I saw their eyes, and I knew they were frightened. Nothing I could say or do would take that fear away! They judged! They _judged me!"_

"Because you were—"

"Ah, you're wrong!" he cries. "Before I spoke, I saw… and your redheaded friend tried to overcome it with words, with polite, cordial words… but Erik sees through words! Words mean nothing, in the end. Men can lie through their teeth! And Erik does not trust words from anybody, because words are not actions, and they mean _nothing_ to him!"

"You should have told me." I say heatedly. "You should have told me you were coming!"

"You asked me to do it!" Erik fumes. "I was doing what you ask, and it still is not good enough for you!"

"You're twisting my words—"

"_You lied!"_ he suddenly screams, and he is terrifying, both of his eyes glowing like the Devil's cackling madly and he spits flame and fire from every inch of his demeanor. I cry out in horror and sink 

to the floor. His menacing figure stands over me, and he laughs. I grip my arms around myself, stifling moans of terror, and he throws his mask at my feet before storming off into his study.

The door slams, and the cottage shakes on its foundation.

I am still frozen in shock, my eyes glassy. I reach out, tenderly, and gather the mask in my small grip. It looks awfully alone and harmless, resting on my palm. I stare at it for as long as I can, until my eyes are burning with it.

It is a silly battle, and I know he must have several more masks lying around somewhere… But I go over and quickly light a fire in the little grate. It is a symbolic measure, which I once thought he would appreciate… but now he would be furious…

_He said I lied… what did I lie about?_

But he was in a raging temper, a fit. He was not in his right mind.

_He frightened them on purpose… and then he frightened you. _

He's been acting oddly these past few days.

The fire crackles under my fingertips. I draw closer, letting the heat warm up my hands and face. I ought to move back, for the hem of my dress is very close to the embers. Morbidly, I imagine I have caught on fire—would Erik come back in to save me, or let me burn?

I shake my silly thoughts, scolding myself for thinking such thoughts. Very calmly, I throw the mask into the fire.

I go upstairs and bolt my door.

--


	40. Opening

--

When Marianne comes over today, Karl is with her. She sits and talks to me for a few hours, until Karl insists they go. Looking troubled, she agrees and sets off to leave.

I follow them.

Perhaps it is Erik rubbing off on me, or maybe I am really just so curious—and so sure that they're going to talk about me.

Marianne whines, "Karl, there was no need to drag me off like that."

He responds in Swedish, and she looks disdainful. They turn down the hill, so I follow their retreating backs.

"Christine said once that he was deformed… maybe an accident." Marianne replies softly. "It is not for us to judge."

Karl's tone is superior.

"You're right." she replies, and I wish more than anything that I could understand what her husband had said.

He speaks again, and this time his words are much faster, and he uses his hands to gesture. Marianne interrupts, saying, "Perhaps he didn't mean to be." But Karl shakes his head, and she briefly touches his arm.

She murmurs in Swedish, and then closes with, "It is not for us to judge. You are right… he was frightening in many ways. It was hardly his face that scared us, I would say. His manner… his way of _moving_... very unsettling, I agree." She shivers. "And Christine… but I will not question my friend. I am only sad to be leaving her alone… with him. Does he frighten her as well?"

I follow them for a few more minutes, but they walk in silence. She links her arm around his, and they walk at a patient pace, husband and wife together in their musings.

I have no need to be jealous of their… what would be the correct word? Happiness? No, Erik and I were happy. Love? No, Erik loved me and I loved him. Perhaps… _Serenity._ Yes, I envied their serenity.

Although it has not snowed for a few weeks, February still has its cold moments, and a gust of wind reminds me that I should be getting home before I catch a chill… oh, how terrible that would be indeed? Would Erik care for me now?

Oh yes, Erik. Say what you like, but I am not doubting you. I am simply expressing my concern that you, the man who loves me more than anything else put together in this world, has locked himself in his study for the past five days.

And Erik, I heard you one night, up and about downstairs while you thought I was asleep. So that means you are not punishing yourself, not wallowing in misery, not locking yourself up because that's what you do. No, you are hiding from me, dearest, and you are doing a very good job.

But not tonight, Erik! I shall demand you come out, and you will, because I know your weaknesses, and I will use them.

You know I cannot bear to be away from you, and yet you have committed that act.

I know you cannot bear my tears, my pleadings, and my little moment that I have been thinking about for the last week, which I will spring on you at the right moment. Oh yes, Erik, you have made me into a clever young woman.

I snort. I have been having a conversation, in my head, with my husband!

Reigning in my sanity, I reach my beloved cottage and push open the door with confidence. Half of me hopes that Erik may be out by now, might have been lured away from his hiding spot by Mari and Karl; I search thoroughly, but the study door is locked, and he's in there.

I have thus avoided him, as he has been doing to me. With a twisted feeling in my stomach, I wonder if maybe he has been waiting for me to come to him. Sometimes, when Erik is in his bold moments of power, I forget how fragile he is on the inside. I also haven't checked to make sure he's eating… what if he's gotten sick or hurt all alone in there? I wouldn't know.

I pound on the door. "Erik?"

I try to have confidence in my voice, as well as a careful familiarity, but I fail when I hear my voice squeak. "Erik, I want to talk to you."

His voice is unbearably calm and steady. "Oh, do you?"

Surprised that he's answered, as well as encouraged, I say, "Yes, I do. You've been in there a long time. Don't you think it's time to come out now?"

"No, I don't think so." he replies.

Ah, his voice is so smooth, so disguised! I wonder what he is really like in there, hysterical, probably without his mask, maybe slumped on the floor in misery, maybe pacing with fury. But none of that matters when he speaks, for his voice can channel any emotion he desires.

"You're sulking." I say.

He is silent. I know he agrees.

"Are you mad at me, or yourself?"

I can hear him exhale. "Careful…"

Unsure if he is talking to himself or me, I continue with, "Everything was fine one day, and then you decided to be all angry! You purposely scared my friends, when they were very nice to you, nicer than you had to be expecting, admit it—then you come home and start yelling at _me_ for no definable reason, and then start making ridiculous claims that you refuse to justify, and then lock yourself in your study for several days! Really, Erik, that's not decent marital behavior at all. I've had no one to talk to, no one to sing with, and no one in bed with me at night. It's all rather… un-chivalrous of you. You have been acting very melancholy and rather… childish, I must say, and I have decided that I want you to stop at once and come back and live with me like a normal human being again."

I can hear movement in the room. He says quietly, "Well, when you put it that way, my love… it really was not so unexpected."

Confused, I say, "How do you mean?"

His voice sounds far away. "Your voice brings me back." he says slowly. "It is so nice, so comforting, when you bring me back. Only you can, you know… I cannot myself."

I do hate it when he speaks so strangely. I hesitate, and say, "Do you know what tomorrow is."

He seems to think for a moment. I try not to be hurt. I wondered if he would have this date memorized. "No." he finally replies.

I rock back and forth on my heels. "Tomorrow is our anniversary."

His tone is blank. "Our… anniversary?"

I foolishly nod to the door. "It is the day we—we married."

I taste the new silence, trying to detect his emotions, but it's quite impossible with him in a different room. "Erik, will you please open this door?"

"It is unlocked."

It wasn't eight seconds ago, but when I push on the heavy handle, the door falls open with ease.

He's sitting at the piano, and he turns his face towards me, looking expectant. "Come sit by me."

I do so. I hadn't really expected him to still be so angry, not five days later, but I hadn't expected him to be quite so welcoming either. I had to stop expecting things with Erik; he always surprised me! Why did I even bother?

He looks ahead, not at me. "You know the date?"

"I think so." I say. "I had to count back the days with the calendar you gave me, but I did it several times, and I know I am right."

"How kind," he muses, "for my wife to remember our—wedding day."

I suddenly blush, for no real reason that I would share with Erik. I remember other dates as well: the day I first kissed him, the day he first willingly kissed me, the day which our wedding night _really _occurred…

"I just thought you should know." I mutter. " I thought it would make you come out, at least." My tactics have not worked, but in the end, they had really not been used.

He looks at me wistfully. "I was wrong to leave you alone for so long."

I smile weakly. "No matter." I lie.

He sees through my falsehood instantly, of course, and frowns. But he says nothing.

I wonder if I should bring this up, but I say, "What did I lie about?"

He winces, and looks down.

"Never mind!" I say desperately. "I—No need—do not tell me now, we'll—we'll talk about it later!"

He looks up briefly at my face. "Don't be distressed." he pleads soothingly. "You know by now, my anger… it… you know what it does to me."

"You're honest in your anger." I reply softly. "Even if it is untrue, you still believed it at the time. It was my fault, I should not have pushed you so towards Marianne—I thought it would be different this time, I thought you would see what I was trying to tell you, but I—"

"—did not know any better." he finishes, his finger pressing softly against my lips. I savor the sensation for a moment, until he drops it and smiles warily. "We'll talk later?"

It is a request from him, a chance for me to forgive him. I nod very slowly.

"Good." he says, and he suddenly looks very tired. I wonder how much he's slept in here… probably not very much.

But he has composed a new piece, I can see. I look it over, and he watches me, as I study the chords and time signature. He has no poem to it yet, but he has simple vocal instructions written over held notes and vowel sounds over rests.

I point at it unnecessarily. "Could we sing this tomorrow?"

He fingers it delicately. "If it pleases you."

I take his hands. "Tomorrow, then." I agree.

--


	41. Wishing Farewell

--

When March comes, Marianne and I spend most of our time together, outside. In April, we go to a special festival in town and have a wonderful time. We take a weaving class together at the end of the month. In May, I let slip that my birthday is coming up, and she takes me to dinner to celebrate. Even Karl comes, and wishes me a very happy birthday.

Erik doesn't seem to mind that I am mostly with Marianne. I spend my mornings and evenings in his study, talking with him, singing with him… He tells me to spend time with my friend while I can.

"I would never dream of taking your time away from someone who will not be here much longer." he had said, sounding horribly offended, when I ask him if it bothers him that I linger around with Marianne. "Erik is used to being on his own."

"Not anymore." I corrected him, and he looked mollified.

Erik and I never did have our talk on his 'behavior' that one day in front of Marianne. I did not forget it, but I remained too timid to bring it up. He has been in an unusually good mood considering recent events, and I embrace that.

Even the day after, on our anniversary, he was all too eager to acquiesce to my every need. He had been so sweet that day, such a sharp change from the last time I'd seen him. But again, I did not question it. I had simply reminded him that I loved him, and we had loved each other for a whole year.

"Not you." he had said. "Not yet. But you did."

The idea that Erik was thinking those thoughts on the one day when we were _supposed _to be focusing on our unchanging and ever-present love made my heart wail for him. I tried to make him happy that day as well… I had sang religiously—earning a very pleased smile from Erik—, let him read me almost an entire novel while I sat on his lap, and kissed him quite passionately for several minutes, while reminded him yet _again_ how much I loved him.

We did not get that much sleep that night, either.

I was too coward to spoil his good mood, so I never asked him about it. And Marianne never made any comment about the—incident—for which I was eternally grateful.

When May came, I noticed a definite change in her demeanor. Her smiles came less often, she complained of being tired and nervous, and she seemed to be almost ill. Summer was coming, and we both knew what that meant.

"It will be horrible!" she complains. "I will know nothing! Karl's mother will be cruel, even on her deathbed! I will miss my home!"

I try to soothe her, but I really do not know what to say. Leaving the Opera was strange and new for me, but I was not anguished about leaving it. But I could imagine that if Erik and I were forced to leave our cottage, I would be inconsolable.

"You can come back." I remind her. "When Karl's mother has… passed on."

"Such a hassle." Marianne murmurs, wiping her eyes. "It seems so unfair!"

They held off until the second week in June. But they could delay no longer, and Karl was receiving messages from his mother, asking why he hadn't arrived. I watched them pack, occasionally helping. They put an ad in town for their house—I had been bothered by that. What if they came back?

Marianne must have read my face, for she quietly explained, "We are simply renting it, dear. It was Karl's idea. Until we come home, of course."

I was not prepared to say goodbye. Not at all.

But when their house was empty of all their necessary items, and the stood outside their door with the key in Karl's hand, they were leaving, and I had to accept it. They would be going in town and staying there for a few days, before starting on the journey with a friend of Karl's.

"I shall write to you once a week or more." Marianne promises, kissing my cheek. "Maybe every day, once we get there."

Even Karl shakes my hand and gives me a brief kiss. "Farewell, Christine." he offers. "I hope you remain well."

"Thank you, Karl." I reply politely. Marianne dashes in for one more hug.

She walks backwards down half of the hill, so she can continue waving to me, until Karl turns her around so she will not trip over the path. And then, I watch their shadows in the trees after they have disappeared.

I passed Mari's two little white stones for her two children, something that I knew was hard for her to part with. So many things Marianne would miss... I do hope she'll be alright.

"They're gone, Erik." I say miserably when I walk in.

He is sympathetic. "Sweetest, they will be back."

I go over to him and sit next to him, resting my head on his shoulder. He has his automatic tense for the smallest moment at contact, but then he relaxes with good grace and wraps one arm around me, very soothingly.

"I almost do not think they will be." I reply slowly. "And if they _do_ come back, if will not be for a very long time. Years, even."

He seems to be brooding about that for a moment, and then he inhales and sighs, coming over to put his arm around me. "Do not be sad for _too_ long." he says. "I do not like it when you are sad."

I laugh at him, and then grow very somber when he looks at me sharply, his eyebrows raised. "I do not like it when you are angry."

He grows uncomfortable. "I was not _angry_." he shoots back.

I laugh again. "Oh, really? What about the part where you yelled at me and locked your—"

"Will you stop chastening me for losing my temper!" he interrupts. "We both know it is well out of my control!"

I fall silent. He squeezes both of his hands together, as if he is really trying to hold onto that self-control with me around. I give him a moment.

"I was right." he finally says.

"I am sure." I say honestly. "But what particular thing this time?"

"It's your fault." he says brusquely, and I open my mouth in question. "You're the one who's made me any different than what I was supposed to be. I've never even… dared approach a human being with the intent of being friendly before. And then you, convincing me to meet them, to be kind and considerate, and they would be, too… I _believed _you, Christine." His golden eyes are very, very serious. "Never in my life, had I ever believed that. Not even in a dream, or another world. It wasn't possible."

I try to understand for him. I try to feel just a little of his suffering, or his past, but I can't.

I can't, or I won't?

"It was such an odd moment for me." he continues, and he's almost talking more to himself than to me. "Remember, I was thinking about it all day and evening? And you kept asking what was wrong… and I just couldn't think… I couldn't… _think…"_

He heaves a sigh and turns away from me, setting his head in his hands.

"I never meant—"

"You ought to go to bed now." he says smoothly.

I blink. "Are—are you mad at me?"

He turns and presses both of his hands around my waist and a kiss to my forehead. "No, of course not! How could I be angry with you now? I am not. I can't be. But I think you should go to bed."

I know better than to question him. "I will." I saw, swallowing heavily and kissing him back softly on his cheek. He closes his eyes and turns away again. Before I can go upstairs, I hesitatingly peel off one of his gloves.

He snatches away, shocked. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." I say guiltily, pulling his glove back up quickly. "Nothing at all."

I feel his eyes on me suspiciously, and I skip off to our room quicker than normal before he can interrogate me.

I was checking for the ring.

I wonder where he put it?

--


	42. Shifting Seasons

--

"You can hardly complain." I point out to my husband. "They're gone." I lift up my new dress, pleased with the way the sleeves hung off the bodice. Erik's foul mood would not affect me today.

Erik closes his eyes and presses his finger on his forehead. "Could we… please stop talking about it?"

I fold the fabric and throw him an exasperated look. "Not even my friends? Really, Erik… you just don't like people."

"Correct." he answers succinctly. "I hate people."

"All people. Even the ones who _might_ be nice to you. Assuming you're nice to them, of course. Even the ones you haven't met? Those people, too?"

He gives a deliberate nod to each of my claims.

I lift up a white and yellow dress, one that is a particular favorite of mine, but will be no good during the cool weather. I put it to my face, exposing only my eyes, and give Erik a simpering look. "Even me?"

It's his turn to give me an exasperated look.

"I'm quite serious." I say conversationally. "You like me. But, according to you, you must have hated me at one point. Before you even knew me."

For a moment, he looks slightly horrified that I have come to this conclusion. I can see him searching for something to say to that. I wonder absentmindedly is Erik has ever had to grasp for words around anyone other than me. "I _love_ you." he exclaims softly. "So you're different."

"I'm not saying you don't." I assure him quickly. "I only meant—well, never mind, it was a silly question—"

Still looking a little guarded, her watches me as I continue separating my summer and winter gowns. I hope I have not upset him too much.

"_You _were different." he repeats, as if he wants to make that perfectly clear. "You weren't like the rest. You were innocent."

I squirm at his tone. The way he sees me is… ridiculous. "I was not perfect." I sigh patiently.

"Yes, you were. _Are_." is his stubborn response.

"Maybe in _your_ eyes, dear, but no one—"

"You are in my eyes." he agrees, and he sounds pleased that I've said that.

I restrain from rolling my eyes.

He chuckles appreciatively, and I smile. He's been in such a good mood lately… to be exact, ever since Marianne left, although I try not to think about that too much. I still feel foolish for making such a little thing turn into a horrible ordeal for Erik.

As soon as Marianne arrived up North, she wrote me. Already, I've gotten nine or ten letters. Most of them sound cheerful and hopeful, although her irritation shines through when she speaks of how her mother-in-law was not as bad as she'd made her sickness out to be.

"_The woman just wants attention, honestly… Karl is not happy with her either, but of course he's too manly to say anything like that about his mother…It's much cooler up here, if feels like autumn already…"_

Spring had always been my favorite season. In Paris, it was the time when all the snow was cleared and the flowers began to bloom again. It was the most common time to do a new show at the Opera, after our much needed February break.

But up here, the winter is still very much present during the spring months, and the weather simply grows muggy and damp. I can already tell that autumn will be my new favorite season. The trees are beginning to change—golden, bronze shades that stand out on the grey ground and glimmer oddly in the fading sunlight.

I set another dress over the back of the chair, and Erik asks, "Are you going out tonight?"

"No," I say. "I'm just setting out a few lighter dresses to keep during the winter. I can still wear them with a shawl…"

"You are _lovely_." he offers unexpectedly.

I turn away. Of course, I am flattered as always, but we made a rule a long time ago that it would be better if neither of us ever mentioned the other one's looks (a rule that I follow religiously, and a rule Erik has and will _never_ follow).

I see him put his fingers up to his face and touch his cheek briefly, and then stand up. "I have a job." he announces suddenly.

I look up, astonished. "You… what?"

He nods.

I set my dress down, pursing my lips in thought. "What are you talking about? When did this happen?"

"It's a company." he murmurs. "Very private, very unique. It's right on the edge of Stockholm."

"_Stockholm?_" I say skeptically. "When did you go to Stockholm?"

"When I was gone for a while." he explains earnestly. "When I came back to build the piano."

"You went all the way to _Stockholm_?"

"Love, I went further than that." he points out, watching my eyes closely.

"And this company is…?"

"An engineering company. In a way. They examine each print in construction, fix all the angles and degrees of the structure, make sure everything will match up. They take employees by mail…" He trails off, waiting for me to make the connection.

"So… you mail them work?"

"In a way. They send designs. I decide whether or not I should send them to the company to check for mistakes." He makes a bit of a face. "I'm the _middle man_."

I nod a little my mind still reeling from this new information. "That is… well, it's wonderful!"

He shrugs, nonchalant. "We'll need the money eventually. We brought quite a lot with us, but we must replenish it somehow. I would feel better if we did not wait until we are in dire need of it." He gives me a sly smile. "I am rather used to having a lot of it."

I, for one, have never even thought about the matter of money, something that seems very ignorant of me now. And I knew our cottage was quite expensive.

"I could always get my own job in town." I suggest. "There are lots of things I could do."

He shakes his head. "Nonsense. You belong in our home. I, being a caring husband, would never make you work."

"I am quite capable."

"Oh, I know." he says, looking surprised. "But I wouldn't want you to feel _obligated_."

My mind has already traveled into the future. There is a small group called the Mountain Children; seven or eight young boys and girls who meet twice a week to go on nature walks and play in the meadows. Their leader very recently passed on. While that was very sad, I read the notice and saw it also gave a plea for someone to take over so the children could continue meeting. It would only run until October, and they seemed anxious for someone quickly, so the children could have a few more dates.

I run this idea by Erik, who looks slightly doubtful.

"I could do it." I protest. "I have experience working with children, I used to play with them at the Opera." For a moment, I remember all of the little dancers who used to crowd around me and ask for sweets in between their long rehearsals. "I could take care of them fine."

He blinks. "If… if you truly wish."

I am stunned by his lack of argument. "Oh yes!"

He seems unusually stern for a moment. "You would really be dedicated to do that? To be in town for a while?"

"It would only be twice a week." I remind him, guessing his fears. "I will be here most of the time, like always."

I can tell her is reluctant to let me go. But after a moment, he inclines his head, looking a little bemused. "Very well."

I am looking forward to it.

Next Tuesday, I will go down in the afternoon and take the children into the valley. I met my young assistant when I accepted the position in town; she was sixteen or seventeen, with a dimpled smile and hair straight as paper.

I have come a long way from the young girl I was at the Opera.

It really is almost autumn now, and things are changing.

There are the leaves, first of all. The faded green is finally succumbing to all the bright, warm colors of fall, literally the path with crunchy leaves.

There is the weather, which is growing increasingly cooler at night, bringing winds upon us, until I am tucked under my blankets with my hands over my ears.

There is the simple matter of Erik having a job—my Erik, having an actual _job,_ like an actual person!—and the idea that he does not seem repulsed by it, but unexpectedly eager. There is my job as well, a miracle in itself for Erik letting me out of his sight in town for more than five minutes. I think that this activity will not take up nearly as much time as I spent with Marianne, so Erik has no cause of complain. At least, not logically.

Most importantly, there is Erik and I, alone upon our hill. There is no friendly redhead coming to converse with me anymore. There is only Erik for me now, with his lighter moods and his expressions of trust.

And the new baby growing inside of me.

--


	43. Reassurance

--

I couldn't remember if I had perhaps not taken very good care of myself during my first pregnancy—I had mostly ignored it, from what I recalled—but I became absolutely determined to make this the most well cared-for baby before it was even born.

I hardly even hesitated this time. As soon as I guessed—as soon as it even dawned upon me—I went straight to Erik and sobbed.

He was completely silent while I cried my heart out on his shoulder that night. Not even Erik could assuage my fears. What if… what I killed this baby, too?

My son would have been a year old now, being able to take tiny steps and babbling little words. It was too difficult to picture, too unbelievable for me. But he could have had that life, but it was taken away from him. From me. _Because _of me.

If this baby dies, then that would be enough to show that there must be something wrong with me. I am not meant to have a child. And I am selfish for thinking that I am.

Why am I suddenly so drawn to this child? I love children, but I sometimes don't think I would be quite a good mother. Maybe a fond auntie, the one who plays nicely until Mother comes to take the children home. I can do that. But to be the mother of my child? To have to scold them, to raise them, to love them?

Perhaps I am not meant to be a mother.

And I so want to be!

Erik tried to comfort me, but his words were empty of reassurances, and I can tell her has the same fears I do. He seems to fear more for me, and it is not an empty fear; if this innocent baby is put to death again because of me, I will surely lose my mind!

During the first week, I drive Erik insane. He watches me pace, he watches me think, but he has nothing to offer. I feel as if it's his first defeat… He cannot take care of me this time. There is nothing he can do.

"It will be better this time." he says several times, but he never looks directly in my eyes as he says it.

"How can you be sure?" I asked him at one point.

But Erik is not sure of anything anymore. I watch him just as avidly as he watches me. Often, he walks about the house as if in a daze, looking around without really seeing. He sits at the piano, but he will not play, either. Yesterday, I cannot count how many times he asked me if I loved him.

"Of course." I repeated each time. "I love you, no matter what."

Sometimes, he would look at me with great affection, and other times, he would just stare.

But things _must _be better this time. I am happier, I am more prepared, the air is fresh, there is room to move about, and I am eating well. My baby will be… fine.

If I believe it, it will be true.

Erik has a nightmare last night

I know, because I recognize it. He was up before I was in the morning, and down in this music room. He was jumpy—he refused the breakfast I brought him. He wanted me next to him the whole day, simply sitting there, just so he could see me. I dared not question him. He was disposed to my conversation, although he seemed averse to talking himself.

I told him about the children I had seen yesterday for the first time, how fun they were to play with. He looked at me for a long time, his fingers clutching the edge of the piano with such crushing force that I thought for sure the side would crumble. He did not want to hear me sing, nor did he want me to leave the music room.

My husband is an odd man.

During the second week, Erik takes me for a walk around the other side of town. There are many cottages here, as well, although they are far less crowded, and empty of people. It reminds me of the walk we took on my birthday almost two years ago. I bring it up, very lightly, and I can see, he remembers too.

"Things have changed since then." he says gently, and I whole-heartedly agree.

We pass the tiny gathering of lights that is the town below us, and circle back towards our home. Erik is quiet tonight.

"I think it's a boy." I say wistfully, thinking about having a young son with Erik and I. He would be musical, of course, taking after Erik in every movement, following me around, making noise and racket like all young boys do. He would be scolded, yes, but when we would be alone, Erik and I would laugh about his energy, muse over his personality.

I see another picture; a little girl, wearing my hats and make-up, desperately trying to please us. She would play nicely with her dolls and sit on our knees patiently while we told her stories and sang to her. Her favorite thing to do would be to pick the flowers in front of our house, proudly setting them on the table for all to see. "I think it's a girl." I amend.

Erik chuckles quietly. "Make up your mind, now."

I frown, thinking again. I see both of the children in my mind, and I cannot feel one anymore than the other. Girl…? No, perhaps a boy… but perhaps a girl as well…

"Would you like to hear the name?" I ask, pulling on his arm as we pass a tiny forest of trees that once again, is blaringly similar to our walks in Paris.

His yellow eyes pretend to scrutinize me, and then he shakes his head.

I give my trademark pout. "Why not?"

He gives a mysterious smile. "Surprises, surprises," he sings, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like a male equivalent of mine.

"Surely you won't go mad from not knowing?"

His grip tightens. "If you do not agree that I am already half-mad—" He shrugs. "—a little bit more will not make much of a difference."

Unable to tell completely if he is jesting with me, I ignore his comment, and say, "I wonder what it will look like?"

Oh. I realize too late that I have breached a sensitive subject.

I hear him inhale sharply and turn his head a little bit away from me. I push him a little and keep walking, continuing with, "Blonde hair, maybe? But your hair is darker… And eyes?"

"Hopefully not like the _devils__**." **_Erik says nastily.

"Those would be red eyes darling, not yellow." I say helpfully. He gives a little noise that I think might be a poorly disguised laugh, but when I quickly look towards him, he is innocently looking in the opposite direction.

I am holding his right hand, but as we move forward, I try to look at his left hand in the dark evening. I want him to see me looking.

He sighs. "What are you doing?"

"You know," I begin conversationally. "I am married to you. But sometimes I am not so sure if you're married to me."

He actually comes to a complete stop, and turns to me with his glowing eyes burning into mine.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

I hold out my hand to him, putting my little band right in front of his face. His eyes glance at it. "Please, Erik? I've given you several months without it. I want it on you."

"You are being silly." he tells me, and he starts to walk again, humming.

I grumble for a moment, but I'm not quite brave enough to pursue the subject.

During the third week, Erik has a strange phase. He gets very angry one evening, raving about absolutely nothing I can place, and then leaves the house. I cried for only a minute, before I pulled myself together and realized Erik probably wouldn't even remember that he was angry when he came home.

He talks to himself again, and then laughs whenever I tell him to stop. He's going back to… to the way he used to be, before I loved him. Have I changed? I do not know what it is, or how to grasp it, but it worries me.

It must be the baby… If there is anyone else—not that there _is_ anyone else, Erik and I are quite alone once again—who is just as concerned as I am, it would be my Erik.

If all goes well, we will not be alone much longer. _If all goes well_, of course.

"It will." Erik says before I go to sleep, and his cold hand briefly touches my wrist. His golden eyes are earnest and sincere, and just as desperate for hope as I am.

"Of course it will be." I agree, trying to convey my thoughts with my eyes.

He watches me for quite a bit longer before he goes downstairs. I stare at the door, wondering if he is down there speaking to himself again, questioning himself about strange things I do not understand. He tells me all the time that he is mad, and there is nothing I can do. I half believe him, but I sincerely believe that he is much saner with me. Before he had my love, he could be very… unusual, yes. But now, he is normal. Just like he always wanted to be.

Perhaps it is wrong to wish for this, when my son was born three months before his time, but I wish this baby would come sooner.

Before we _both_ lose our minds.

--


	44. Wonder

_--_

_Erik_ confines me to bed rest. Not the physician, who tells me I am of course free to move around for the next few months. However, Erik tells me very strictly that I am not to leave either the bed or the sofa.

I agree with him rather dispassionately, knowing there is really no use in arguing with him. And when he leaves me, I still lay on the small sofa, bound not by physical restraints, but by the image of Erik's figure standing over me.

My baby turns over inside of me. I pat my stomach and say, "I know. I want to move around as well. But Papa knows best." Right now, I feel him as my son. He probably understands. He'll probably be just like Erik.

Snow is already over the ground. It was my wish to go down into town this year to celebrate the holiday with all the festivals and traditions, but I know Erik will put his foot down.

I'm quite sure the baby can hear my thoughts as well, and she kicks me. I pat her again. In my mind, she's turned into my daughter.

"He's not being mean." I say consolingly. "He worries about us."

"Who are you talking to?" Erik demands, appearing in the doorway. His eyes suspiciously comb the room. Does Erik really think I've snuck someone into the house from my sofa?

"Our baby." I explain.

He looks disdainful. "It can't hear you."

"Yes, she can!" I explode indignantly.

His thin eyebrows arch. "Yesterday, you said, 'he'".

I close my eyes. "You're right," I say. "Perhaps it is a boy." I think for a moment. "No. It's a girl today." I really can't explain it. It could be a girl, it could be a boy. I wish I knew for certain.

"Have you eaten anything?" he questions, ignoring me.

I huff at him. "Am I permitted to go into the kitchen?"

"No." he says, frowning at me when I make a face at him. "You stay here. I will be right back."

Slightly irritated that my husband is back to treating me like a child, I sit up distractedly, swinging my legs over to touch the floor. If he is going to be ridiculous, then I am not forced to follow his orders. If I be the only one in this house with common sense, then I will make the decisions.

Appearing out of nowhere, like he always does, Erik takes both of my wrists in his stony grip, making my heart stop in my chest.

I wonder if our child will be strong, like Erik?

"Did I say, _get up_?" he thunders, making me squeak in fear. "I do not understand why you will not listen to me, ever! Am I not making myself very clear? Do you think I am being silly?"

"Erik," I whimper, pulling my hands up and clutching my face in terror while he keeps his hold on my wrists. "I am fine, truly I am." I should have waited until he was in the kitchen…

He shakes his head, both of his own hands releasing me and coming up to cup my face.

I let him push me back down, and say, "I know how you feel, Erik. Or at least, I'm trying to know… Are you worried about me?" My hand finds its way to my midsection. "About us?"

He looks at me blankly. "If the baby dies, Christine will be unhappy."

I touch his chest lightly. "And you? You would be unhappy, too?"

"Erik is always unhappy if Christine is unhappy."

I stroke him lovingly, trying to see him in the light that he sees himself. He is simply overly worried, that is all. I must say the right things to calm him, and he will be back to normal. "Now, now, I'm not unhappy. And neither are you. We'll be very, very happy when this baby is born."

"Right." he agrees softly. "I understand."

I wonder if our child will be happy?

My lips part a little, but I decide that I do not want to say anything else. I have a bit of a headache. I wonder if Erik will put his hands on my forehead, if I ask.

I wonder what Erik was like as an infant? Did he cry often, begging for the love and attention that was surely and cruelly denied to him? Or perhaps he was a quiet baby, one of those children with sad eyes, the ones who always look much older than they really are. Just thinking about Erik, him being neglected as a child, makes me reach out and lay my arms around him protectively, because he's mine.

Erik doesn't seem perturbed by my touch. Looking a little confused, but willing nonetheless, he lets my hands go up to his face, my fingertips feeling his smooth skin. I let my fingers go everywhere from the creases under his eyes, to his soft temples, to the area around his lips, to make sure that I am the person who knows him best. I love him the most, and I _deserve_ him the most. Everyone who has hated him, who has hurt him, they don't deserve him. I must make sure that n one knows him better than I.

"No one does, I assure you." he says quietly, and he smiles when I turn red, realizing I had begun to speak aloud towards the end.

I hope she smiles like him, our baby. I would never say _that_ aloud, however. Even to someone else, someone who doesn't know him, I think that Erik would not look so scary if he smiled. Papa used to tell me that when you smiled, the little fairies from the North would come to you in your sleep and sprinkle their magic dust over you, to make your features lovely. A silly tale, beloved by me, and still slightly believed...

I touch his face on last time. "You must be true to our child, as well. No hiding away, no masks around her. Him. You would frighten him more. Her. Whichever."

"No," Erik says disapprovingly. "You, my beautiful, may be used to me and my horrible face, but it would most certainly frighten the child."

"Not if it's all they know of you." I say back, and he looks shocked.

"My face would be the only face your child would know?" he asks, looking at me as thought he expects me to reveal I am only jesting. "How cruel of you!"

I cannot quite think of anything to say to this, so I turn away. He will see, in time, when the child is here. He won't hide from our child, not ever. Our child will be brought up to see that only the inside matters.

"I am not going to be lying down for the next few months." I tell him boldly, deciding to overlook our conversation altogether... "If I would like to go into the kitchen, I will. When I am tired, I will lie down. You may take care of me, but you are _not_ confining me."

He leans back and crosses his arms. "You dare not to do what I tell you to do?"

I see an image of his personality years ago at the Opera, when his word was law and I followed it without question.

I wonder if our child will be stubborn?

"When the baby is born," I say lazily, not answering him. "You will have to help me take care of him. I cannot manage by myself. Remember, it is our baby."

Erik rolls his eyes, just a little. "Ah, so it is a boy again?"

I tilt my head at him. "Would you like a son or a daughter?" I ask innocently. Half of me wants to give him a son, to follow in his footsteps and make him proud, and half of me wants to give him a daughter to cherish and take care of with all of his heart.

Something flickers in his eyes, for just a moment. "Erik wants a happy wife. _And_ child." he adds rather unwillingly under my sharp gaze. He offers a hopeful smile, apologetic. "Perhaps I will get used to saying that in a while."

"You had better." I mutter, putting my hand over my stomach.

--


	45. Arrival

--

The birth came after all the leaves had fallen off the trees and crumpled. It came after Christmastime, where Erik and I had attempted to have a proper Swedish holiday, and failed miserably. It came after I finally received the letter from Marianne saying that her mother-in-law had finally gone up to the Lord, and they would be preparing the funeral for next week. Karl would be settling a few business affairs, and they would be coming home. Mari said she had a surprise to show me, but she wouldn't say, and told me I couldn't ask.

When I was out in the rain, trying rather fruitlessly to start my flowers growing, I knew the baby was coming. Unlike the fierce, ripping sensation like before, there was only a gentle tugging accompanied by brief pressure in my back. I didn't even scream.

Erik was highly reluctant to leave me, but he managed to go into town and return with the physician in record time.

I really do not remember any pain.

Nothing. No feeling, no screams. Erik knelt beside me the entire time, singing sweetly. That voice… how could anyone listening to it even imagine pain? Pain was the last thing on my mind. I didn't want to fall, like before… but Erik's voice provided a soft landing, a helpful light that followed my every move and drew me away from every thought.

He told me later it went on for only an hour. It felt like days.

Not like before, where time mixed together with screams and sighs, and I could hardly breathe. Both times I was vaguely unconscious, both times in very different ways.

In fact, I am not aware of _anything_, except for my Erik, tangled up in my own little world, until I suddenly feel an emptiness within me. It's more emotional than physical, but I can't explain the indescribable sorrow, as if I have just been parted from something very dear to me. I hold out my arms, an automatic response; a plea for whatever has been taken from me, a request to give it back.

_I know my baby will be fine._

And she is.

She's handed very carefully to me, already wrapped in a pale, cream blanket. I am desperate to see her move, to see that life is still within her… As she comes by my hand, her own hand moves back and forth, and her tiny breath tickles my warm skin. I smile, never realizing how lovely the sound of breath is—the sound of life.

"A daughter." the physician says unnecessarily, trying his best to ignore Erik, which he has already been doing the entire time. I almost can't blame him in this moment. Erik honestly looks quite foreboding, with his masked face, which is unable to hide the worry in his eyes.

But he doesn't seem out of place to me. He belongs here, with his wife and child, and no physician was going to drive him out while I was here, no matter what the traditions were.

I touch her soft face, her crinkled eyes. Her thin curls are wet to touch, but warm and silky.

I wish she would open her eyes.

"Adora." I say sweetly, as one of her hands comes up to her face. She yawns.

Erik creeps over, but he doesn't seem to want to touch her. I press two of my fingers to her forehead, and gesture that he should as well. He shakes his head, looking frightened.

"You can." I tell him. His hands clench into fists and he shakes his head again.

"I shouldn't." he replies, and his voice is hushed, unsure.

My daughter begins to cry. Her mouth opens, pink and moist, and she lets out a shrill cry that sounds like a withheld whimper. Her movements are fluid, in-sync with her voice; her arms and legs are in motion under the blanket.

I wipe off a bit of smudge on her cheek and kiss it. Her mouth closes at my touch, but the sound continues, little gurgles in her precious throat.

Erik seems to be watching in morbid fascination. His eyes follow each movement, but he still seems too wary to touch us.

After a minute, she very blearily opens her eyes. They are tiny, squinted, and a clear, newborn blue.

I suddenly need to make sure she is alright. She needs to be healthy, so I cannot lose her, ever. Just as I have carried her for these long months, I must keep her with me. I will not give her up.

She can move, she can cry. She turns when I murmur, so she can hear. Her eyes are bright… too bright. They blink, and stare ahead. Irrational fears rush into my head.

"She's blind?" I say in terror, turning her for a closer look into her pale orbs.

"No, she's not." Erik says immediately, going around my shoulder and looking down. "What on earth makes you say that?"

"Her eyes…" I whisper, and I calm myself down, watching her eyes look straight into mine. I draw my finger down the bridge of her nose, and she trembles, her eyes still looking upwards. I pause. Had I only imagined that? Or had it been I who had trembled?

"All children's eyes are like that." he tells me quietly.

I nod, and hold her carefully in my arms. She closes her eyes and seems to go back to sleep.

Erik looks as though he wants to move away again, so I reach out my free arm and grab his hand. He pulls feebly, but stays next to me, gazing down at our daughter. I wait for him to say something.

"How tiny." he finally murmurs. "So small. Such… a little thing for you. Are you very happy, Christine?"

"Come closer." I request, but he remains upright, cold in my grasp.

"So small." he repeats.

I think I fall asleep. Time passes slowly, like tiny white, falling leaves. In my dream, Erik's fear is replaced with awe as he looks down at our daughter, who takes his hand. Astonished, I leave them and try to find my way out of the darkness, into the snow, where a little girl captures my hand and pulls me down in the hill into Erik's arms.

My arms… my arms are empty, and once again, I _feel_ empty. My beautiful, little child is no longer a part of me. She no longer shares my moods, my thoughts, my life. I don't know where she is! "Adora?"

"She's here." Erik's voice answers, and I open my eyes as he materializes next to my bed, assuaging my unspoken fears.

"Let me hold her," I beg, and Erik points over to the corner, where her tiny make-shift crib sits.

"The physician I still downstairs." he tells me. "And I don't think you ought to get out of bed just yet. You have had a long day."

His statements seem odd to me in many ways. The birth had seemed light, painless—thanks to him, of course. Why was the physician still here I was absolutely fine. I only wanted my baby.

"Will you give her to me?" I ask, and his fingers tighten against the headboard, and he shakes his head. "Why ever not?"

He gives a tight smile, as if he already knows I will not like his answer. "I would… not like to touch her, thank you."

"She won't break."

"She might." he answers.

"Erik, please go get _our baby_."

He puts a palm against my shoulder—I can feel the chill even through the thin fabric—and another on my cheek. "You want Death's hands to touch your baby?" he asks incredulously. "Cold, bony, _dead_… Erik can only go so far. If he touches you…" He smiles wryly. "… Well, I have come to understand that are used to it. But not her. I will not touch your baby."

I mull this over, trying to formulate an argument that would make sense to him. "She's your baby," I explain. "She is part you. She understands. She'll understand more than anyone else, Erik. Probably more than me. It would hardly affect her. She's yours."

"_Ours._" he corrects absentmindedly. I let a growing smile shine on my face.

He rocks back and forth, and then paces hesitatingly over to the crib. He gazes for a full ten seconds before he cautiously lowers his arms and protects her with one hand.

She looks even more beautiful. Her skin has faded from red to a healthy peach, and her dry curls poke out from behind her ears. The burning desire to have her close to me again overwhelms me, and my eyes actually fill with tears as I extend my arms.

"She's awakened." he whispers, taking one finger and placing it in front of her nose. As soon as he is near to the bed, he deposits her quickly into my arms.

She lets out the shrill cry again, her eyes looking around, her head unable to move.

"She's looking for you." I say to Erik, and I try not to laugh at his expression, visible even under the mask.

"Me?" he says, looking perplexed.

Her fingers curl weakly around the neckline of my underdress. "My adorable baby." I coo. "My adored one."

She tried to stretch again, and I see how tiny and helpless she really is. She can't even lift her own head! How strange, to be holding this little, dependent life. She folds naturally into me, needing that support and comfort.

"You shall have to take care of us, Erik. Her and I. We need you, to keep us safe and loved. Together. Just like a real family."

Erik bravely lays his finger on the top of Adora's head, and I see a true note of pride in his eyes. He takes my left hand, where my golden band is snug and safe on my finger, and reaches into a pocket in his coat. There, he pulls out his own ring, the ring I gave him, the ring he has never worn, the ring with the word _Together_ engraved on the rim. We were together. Just like he'd always wanted. _All_ of us.

One hand still on Adora, he deftly slips it on with his fingers.

"A real family." he agrees.

--


	46. Caution and Love

--

As I hold her, she begins to shake again, her eyes so glassy that I can easily understand why I might have mistaken my daughter as blind.

Petrified, I alert Erik, who watches solemnly. We stare into each other eyes for a long time.

He sighs. "The physician wants to talk to you."

On the couch downstairs, Adora tucked protectively in the crook of my arm, the elderly physician tells me fluently in French that my daughter has epilepsy. The term means nothing to me, and I look to Erik in confusion. He shakes his head ever so slightly, and nods towards the physician, not willing to explain. Adora has had seizures—several small ones already. I learn that this can be very dangerous for a baby, especially when she begins to walk and move around unattended. Erik's fingers cut into mine, the physician's works confirming his fears; it is a mark of how serious the situation is that Erik sits next to me calmly, comfortable with the present company—a feeling apparently not shared by the physician, judging on the way he does everything he can to avoid looking Erik's way.

But my Erik is brave. He is doing this for Adora.

"The very good news is that she will most likely grow out of this." the physician tells me confidently. "It may linger up until her early childhood. There is nothing much to be done for her at this time. I will, of course, offer you my care if you should ever need it."

When he leaves, Erik is up instantly, taking off his mask and pressing his hands into his eyes, pacing. I rock my sleeping baby, unwilling to believe that there is anything wrong with my perfect, precious angel.

Her next seizure is not for several days. When it happens, I hold her carefully, distraught over the fact that there is nothing to do for her. Nothing! I can do nothing to help my child.

But I must hold myself together, for I learn quickly that where I panic quietly and take deep breaths, Erik grows completely hysterical.

"What is the matter?" I ask in shock and worry when I find Erik sobbing in our room not five minutes later. I put Adora down in her little crib and go over to him, putting both of my hands on his shoulders. "Erik, tell me what's the matter! And don't you dare say—"

"It's all my fault!" he moans brokenly. "It must be my fault!"

My heart sinks. "Darling, how can you even—"

"I _still_ cannot give you what you want!" he says, clawing onto both of my hands so that I must carefully lean down in front of him, looking upon him very seriously. "Erik begs you—no, he cannot give you perfect children! The ones _you_ deserve. She's flawed, like me. She's not perfect, like you! She ought to be, but I have cursed her, because you called her mine. How can you suffer beside her? You will _not _suffer with her! You don't want her. You don't love her, because she is not perfect!"

_He is speaking from experience, Christine… be patient, please…_

"Tell me," he begged. "Do you hate her, like my poor mother, because she is not perfect? Do you hate her?"

"How could I?" I say softly, and he cries against my hand, and will not look at me. "She is our child. And I love her for what she is. And she _is_ perfect."

There was no way we could hold a conversation like this, not when he was so irrationally upset. He clutches onto my dress and releases horrible, racking sobs.

But Adora had no more episodes for a very long time. She was, it seemed to me, actually very healthy. She ate when I fed her, reacted to our voices, and almost instantly, began sleeping through the night.

How could Erik see her as anything but perfect. It occurred to me slowly that what should concern me wasn't that _he_ didn't see her as perfect, but that he thought _I _didn't see her as perfect.

As the months went on, Adora's eyes turned a darker blue, identical to mine. Her nose has the same little tilt to it that mine has, and her lips curve in the same direction. Her hair is growing darker than mine, a chestnut brown with very, very thin curls that stick out straight from her head.

Erik calls me crazy, but I see him in Adora as well.

Part of me wonders if Erik simply has forgotten what _he_ looks like, but I find pieces of him in her growing features. Most dominantly are her high cheekbones, which will give her quite the look of a sophisticated young lady when she is older; she certainly did not inherit that from me. There is also something in the shape of her eyes and face—unlike the roundness of mine, hers is more oval.

The next time I see Erik cry is when I cut her hair. It grows surprisingly quickly, and the silky curls go haphazardly over her head.

"It doesn't hurt her." I promise Erik comfortingly, while he presses his lips together and refuses to look. "It must be done eventually. Look, it is going in her eyes. You wouldn't want her to not be able to see fully, would you?"

"Be quiet and do the damn thing already." he snaps.

I wasn't sure of what to accredit that reaction to. Perhaps it bothers him that it may hurt her in some way; perhaps he is just partial to her curls.

One evening, when I am trying to make supper, she cries when I lay her down. I pass her off to Erik, who happens to be in the hallway at the time.

"She just wants to be held." I say absently, my back to the both of them, pulling down bowls.

As I turn back, Erik is frozen, his arms held out from his body, Adora positioned rather precariously.

"Erik!" I scold, but he only stares at her with wide, glowing eyes, both of his abnormally long hands enveloping her entire body. He touches a curl with his pointer finger, and then breezes past her nose. She squirms, and he looks up, shocked to find me standing there.

"Take her!" he cries suddenly, his arms thrust out towards me. He vanished.

I sigh.

When she sleeps, I like to lay on the sofa, her little body curled into my chest. It's is amazing how tiny she truly is when she brings her legs up and her arms together. I have watched her for hours before, captivated by the life that was once held inside of me. Even now, I am silent and still while her eyes are closed and her lips parted, until she wakes up and coos at me.

Her newest talent is this _coo_—her face molds into a surprised look and that lovely sound escapes from her pink lips.

Erik doesn't find it as interesting as I do—or if he does, he is very good at hiding it. "She ought to be speaking soon." he states flatly.

"Oh heavens, Erik, she's only a few months old!" I say, cradling her in my arms and cooing back to her.

Erik watches me make a fool of myself with an odd look on his face.

Adora doesn't talk for quite a long time; she takes her first passable steps before she utters anything that is remotely passable for a word.

It was a dramatic moment in our household (for me, at least—Erik said that all children walk, and to make such an affair out of it was sure to harm her in later life—but he was smiling rather deviously as he said that) when Adora took her first, hesitant step towards me, her pale, solemn eyes focusing on my waiting arms.

She is such a smart girl! Even Erik admitted that she seemed very bright one afternoon, as he stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed rather proudly on our little daughter.

_Our_ daughter. At the Opera House, when I first saw his dark figure for the first time, could I have even imagined that future that we would have?

Her next seizure comes the same night that I thought my deep thoughts, just as I am fondly lowering her down into her crib. There is nothing I can do again!—only to hold her and keep her safe.

But still, I cannot describe my absolute panic, my heart in my throat, my arms trembling so much that I am afraid I might drop her.

But Erik comes and pulls her out of my arms, holding her himself. He can hold her tighter than I can, while she twists in his arms, her eyes not seeing his upon her.

When she is still, her eyes flutter closed, and he sets her down softly in her crib.

"You shouldn't panic so," he tells me quietly while I bury my face in his shoulder, still shaking myself. "We do not want to distress her. The physician is right, she will grow out of this."

I cling to him. "But… it's so unfair!"

He holds onto me. "She's fine."

In my heart, I know she is… But I'm frightened for her. I don't want her to be in any pain. I want her to be happy.

"I believe you." I murmur. He feels nice and strong after holding Adora—her scent still lingers upon both of us, and I inhale. I can feel the presence of both of my loved ones very close to me. It makes _me_ feel safe. Loved.

He carries me to bed.

--


	47. Return

--

When Marianne _finally _comes, it's in late January, two months before Adora's first birthday. I, by chance, had been passing the small window in the kitchen, when I catch a glance of movement away from our cottage. Focusing, I see Mari first, her face looking fuller, and her hair considerably shorter. The absence of nearly two years has made her a very sweet sight to see.

What is even sweeter is the surprise that I had been secretly hoping for; the small boy toddling next to her. Even from this distance, his bright blonde hair and grey eyes make him an unmistakable image of Karl.

I cannot bear to leave Adora alone for even three seconds, so I scoop her up in my arms while I dart out there. I don't know who is more delighted: Marianne or myself.

I didn't even know where to start, but Marianne already launches into _everything_ within the first second. "It was so cold there, and lonely! And the silly woman claimed she was too sick to even light a fire, so the house was always bitterly cold until Karl came home each night." She claps her hands joyfully, and Adora grips onto my thin collar, her wide eyes examining this new, red-headed phenomenon. "Oh, I _told_Karl that it would be wonderful if you had your own baby, and he said you probably wouldn't! Gabriel!" she suddenly scolds, as the little blonde boy, who cannot be but a few months older than Adora, stands on his tiptoes and grasps her foot. Adora lets out a sound in shock, and her hands curl around me even tighter. The toddler totters and falls back, grinning toothily at his mother.

Karl comes the next day, wrapped up in a scarf, carrying the boy through the morning frost. Marianne brings a quilt, and we all sit outside, Adora snoozing in the several blankets I have wrapped her up in, Gabriel eating the grass beside her.

"She is sweet." Karl says politely, gesturing towards Adora. "We are sorry we are not here to see her born."

"Her hair and eyes are darker than yours," Marianne notes. "But I think she looks like you. Are you sure she's almost a year? She hardly looks that big yet!"

"She was born March 27." I say, looking at my little bundle fondly. Her nose wrinkles in her sleep.

"Gabe is a big boy." Marianne proudly says, and he looks up at her, frosted grass sticking out from his mouth. I giggle; for someone who looks so much like Karl, Gabriel acts so very much like his mother. "Born nearly two weeks late, weren't you, you naughty boy!"

Perhaps it's because his parent's have hair straight as paper, but Gabriel is obsessed with my hair. He continuously pulls himself into a standing position, and grips the curls down my back with his tiny fists, and pats them. Karl scolded him at first, but I could only laugh.

Adora finally wakes up in the late afternoon, her dark blue eyes blinking lazily. Gabriel is quite a bit away, over by the tree by himself. Marianne is keeping a close eye on him, although it makes me nervous; I would never let Adora wander that far away! How can she bear to have him alone and unprotected?

Gabriel trips on the tree he is circling, and cries out. I tense, but Mari simply calls, "Up you get, Gabe. Are you hurt?"

"No!" he yells back, and then resumes his exploring.

I suppose I will have to eventually let my daughter wander off as well… but not quite yet.

As for Erik; he still has this odd little thing where he does not like touching her, but she also does not leave his sight. If she goes into another room, he drops all of his music and follows her. She likes the attention from him more so than me… when she does this, she'll turn and smile at him, and he'll smile back.

Our daughter is going to be a very spoiled girl, I'm afraid.

Erik and I are both equally shy, quiet people, and it seems that Adora has gotten that trait as well. She _can_ speak small words, certainly, but mostly she is silent, just staring. But she smiles—she has a beautiful smile already!—and listens when we speak to her.

Adora is watching Gabriel with wide eyes; she has never seen a child that small before, having only occasionally seeing the Mountain Children in town, who are all a few years older. Gabriel seems rather uninterested in her when she's awake, but when she sleeps again, he comes and peers at her face.

Marianne and I talk about everything, and it's not uncomfortable in the slightest having Karl there, like I would suspect she would be with Erik present. She holds Adora very gently, rocking and crooning to her. I remember her two lost babies, the two she was so certain were girls… and I remember my firstborn, my son, who is no longer here… But looking at little Gabe and my precious Adora… Well, I think things turned out just right in the end. For both of us.

When evening falls and the weather is very, very chilly, Marianne and Karl pack up to leave. To my despair, they have not regained control of their own little cottage yet; the elderly couple living in it now requested a few more months, and they graciously agreed. Instead, they live on the other side of town, nearly an hour away. They must get home before dark falls.

"But we will come again," Marianne reminds me, looking at my crestfallen face.

"I know." I say wistfully. Adora sits on our own blanket, and I ponder how I am going to carry her, the blanket, and the basket the few minutes back home. I am, at least, grateful I do not have to go through town.

My dilemma is answered when I see a familiar shape emerging lithely from the shadows. He stops in the trees, his dark mask blending in with the darkness around him. I look at him in shock, my head tilted, wondering what he is planning.

His eyes ask permission. I purse my lips and nod very slowly, pushing my blonde locks out of my face so he can see my eyes as well.

It is like déjà vu from two years ago, when he approached Marianne at nearly this exact same spot. Only this time, I do not hesitate, but go and proudly stand next to my husband, while keeping a sharp eye on my sitting daughter. Adora smile lightly when she catches sight of him.

Marianne smiles too, after her eyes dart quickly to Gabriel. "Erik! How lovely to see you again!"

He inclines his head awkwardly. Karl moves closer to his wife, and Erik ignores him.

"I do not remember ever being introduced properly." Erik says quietly. "You are Marianne, Christine's friend, and your family." His gaze lingers on Gabriel for a moment, who is standing still, looking in awe up at Erik. "Welcome home."

Mari deliberately nudges Karl, who says shortly, "Pleasure to meet you." His eyes fasten on the edge of Erik's mask, and then he looks him up and down. He attempted to smile like the rest of his family, but only grasped Marianne's hand.

Adora makes a jealous noise; no one is looking at her.

Gabriel says, "You are tall."

Marianne grasps him and pulls him back, not unkindly. "Gabe, do be nice!" She shoots a nervous look at Erik, as if expecting him to be angry.

"Not nice." he whispers, and hides behind her skirts.

Adora laughs. It's another new talent, one that I find simply endearing. She doesn't do it often; but when Gabe pokes his head out, she laughs again.

"We were just coming home, "I explain to Erik, who nods again. "They're living on the other side of town, now. Perhaps we'll see them next weekend." He touches my hand, seeking some comfort, and I take it firmly, leaning away only to pick up Adora.

"Baby!" Gabriel says, and he rushes forward.

"You'll see her again." Marianne promises. She gestures to him. "Come, it's time to go home. Erik, Christine… it was nice to see you both again."

Karl is looking at my own and Erik's hands', entwined by our sides. He quickly looks up to me, and then to him, and then gives a smile. He looks at his son, who is still over Adora, a thoughtful frown on his chubby face.

Gabriel waves very closely to her face—I tense, hoping he will not hurt her—and then places a very wet kiss on her forehead. Adora lets out a shrill giggle and grasps his blonde locks in her tiny fists.

Karl says, "Gabriel…" while Marianne pulls him into her arms, saying, "Now, you can't be her beau _quite_ yet…"

Her beau! I take Adora, and wipe the circle of saliva off her head, while Gabriel calls, "Bye, baby!"

I laugh.

Erik growls.

--


	48. Searching

--

After I put Adora to sleep, I wander over to our bed, where Erik is writing quietly. I lay on my side next to him, looking at the precise music notes scratched on the parchment.

"How can you write music without hearing it?" I ask aloud. He turns to look at me, looking rather startled, as if he hadn't realized I was there. He turns back to his music, thoughtfully.

"I can hear the music," he murmurs. "And you ought to be able too, if you were sight-singing properly. Would you sing it if I gave your starting note?"

The music has much too many chords, and no melody line. I find a simple measure and say, "I know the distance there." I point to an interval. "But how do I know what note to start on? What if I'm singing in one key and writing it down in another?"

"Perfect pitch is given to few," he sighs. "Most need a starting pitch, as I said. Were you not listening, silly woman? If I gave you an E, would you be able to sing an A?"

"It's a perfect fourth." I announce proudly, humming it. It reminds me of the Wagnerian Wedding March from _Lohengrin._ I loll back onto my arms, resting my chin in my hands. "Adora's birthday was nice, don't you agree?"

He nods slowly. It had been a fun day last week. Karl and Marianne were over, and we'd had small cakes and opened a few presents. Mari gave Adora her very first pair of lace-up boots—"For the snow, when she's walking, of course."—and ribbons for her hair—"I hope she has curls like you, Christine, dear."

Erik had much preferred to linger in the kitchen most of the time, although he had thanked Marianne for the gifts. By the afternoon, he had disappeared, probably off into his music room, but it didn't bother me he had been exceptionally well-behaved, and I certainly did not expect him to be exoteric.

But Adora had been a good child as well, so both of my beloveds had been rewarded: Adora with a cracker, and Erik with a kiss.

Although the weather is beginning to grow slightly warmer, we still lack any heat in our home. I snuggle against Erik. While his thin frame was not what others would typically classify as _comfortable,_ it provides a strong security for me. What would I ever do without him?

He sighs and lays his music down, gathering me into his arms. I peck his forehead lightly to show I appreciate the sacrifice. He scoffs.

"I just surrendered my music for a woman," he says rather despairingly. "When did I ever grow so shallow?"

"You must be _very_ shallow." I agree. "Music is much more important. Think of how special music is to you, how much it does for you! Obviously, music and your wife cannot be in the same room together. The _music_ is much too distracting."

He gives me an odd, little look, as if he is not sure if I am mocking him, and settles on looking perplexed. "Music is very distracting." he concurs, pulling his long fingers across my abdomen. I sigh in contentment, although on a different note, my dress feels very thick and out of place at the moment.

"What makes music so special for you?" I ask. "What makes you… surrender to it every time? There must be something…"

His lips skim my forehead. "Music is warm." I give him a very obvious look, and he nods fervently, pressing my hand to his cold face. "Oh, yes, my dearest, do not look at me like that! I speak nothing but the truth." He continues to move my hand over his face. "Simple cause and effect. I put my soul into music, and it gives back to me, see? Restores me. Heals me."

"I see…"

"I am sure there are more rational reasons," he says quietly, and his hands grasp me and pull me against him, cradling me. "I'm not sure about other music… but _my_ music is beautiful. Even when… when the rest of the world may reject me—music welcomes me with open arms."

"Are you sure you're speaking about _mu_—"

"Yes, I am. Music is wonderful. Music saved me. Flawless. Angelic. I _love_ music…"

We are both silent for a long time.

"You know," I finally say conversationally. "I do believe you may be speaking in metaphors."

"Is that so?" he asks, staring at the ceiling. My fingers are still linked with his. "I was writing a beautiful song until your propinquity… distracted me."

He leans to kiss me again, and I grab onto him, pulling his downward, and I hear a little sigh that is certainly not from my husband. Adora is standing in her crib, watching us with a moody expression.

"You should be asleep!" I tell her, sitting up quickly to retrieve her. She beams at me when she realizes she is getting her way, and lifts her hands. I am beginning to grow afraid that Adora has inherited the odd gene that apparently grants incredible stamina and an ability to go without sleep for… well, longer than a person should. "Why are you like your father?" I mutter to her as I lean her against my shoulder.

Erik chuckles as I bring her over, and she scampers straight to him. He silently offers her his hand, and she presses her nose into his palm, like a shy animal, and then giggles as if she's never done anything funnier. He withdraws a little, clenching his fist at the sudden contact.

I sit next to her, and she leans against my skirts, staring at me innocently.

"Go to sleep." I say. "That's right. Sleep."

She makes a kissing noise at me.

I tuck her in against the pillows, to elucidate my point. "Good _night_, Adora. Night. Nighttime."

Her little toes kick a little, and she rolls into a tiny ball, her eyes wide open. I echo her sigh; I ought to take her into her room and rock her.

Erik starts to sing, a vaguely familiar song I am sure he has sung to me before—Adora instantly grows still, her brown curls resting around her head like a crown.

"Will you carry her to bed?" I whisper to Erik. Without ceasing his song, he gives me a look that says very plainly, _Good trying, Christine,_ and continues to weave his melody, while staying firmly seated on the bed.

I carry her to her crib myself, watching her closed eyes. She has such long eyelashes—she is too beautiful.

Erik's voice fades out as I climb back into bed. "You could keep singing for me." I suggest hopefully, but all I hear is the steady and reassuring sound of Adora's breathing.

"She looks like you." he murmurs.

"And you." I mutter back.

"She is a good girl," he answers. "You take good care of her. Our little one. She belongs to us. Erik and Christine."

"Yes, ours." I add simply.

"We must never let anything happen to her. I take care of my Christine, because she belongs to me. And we must take care of Adora, because she belongs to us."

"I understand." I whisper, and I search his eyes, wishing more than anything that I could be a part of Erik, and see the truth in his eyes and soul. What does he mean when he utters things like such? I so long to see how he views the world, but I cannot. All we can do is bring our own views and share them with each other, share them with love. And I want to think that if I ever were to see in Erik's soul, I wouldn't find his fits of anger, nor his uncontrollable fury; I wouldn't find all of his hidden sorrows or his melancholy too deep to express. I would just find his love.

He leans over again, taking both of my hands, looking at me. I have come to expect anything and everything from Erik, but I am surprised at how gentle he seems to be now.

"Do you love me?" he asks.

"I do."

He furrows his eyebrows, almost in pain, and says, "Ask me!", his voice sounding eager. "Ask me, Christine!" and he sounds frantic.

"Do you love me, Erik?"

"Yes. _Yes_. I do, yes."

I pull him against me as he kisses my forehead, and he comes on top of me as I try my absolute best to pull him into my world. And in my world, no one cares about his ugly, terrible face, or his hands cold as death. My soul searches only for love, and I know that despite everything, in the end, that is all Erik's is looking for too.

--


	49. Attention

--

"Stop it." Erik snaps. "Why do you do that?"

"Erik, she's only a baby." I remind him as Adora munches on a sheet of his music. I had brought Adora in here to cheer him up, because he had been in a rather touchy mood this morning; apparently, it was not such a good idea. At the sound of Erik's harsh voice, she looks up fearfully and begins to cry.

_I hardly blame you_, I think silently, musing over how violent Erik could make his voice sound in that mere moment. She crawls over to me and sits on my skirts, her little fussings simply a beg for attention.

"Oh, you're fine." I tell her, but Erik shoots me a guilty look and adjusts his mask (No matter how many I destroy, he always has another one), defiantly not looking at our daughter. She begins to cry again, and he leaves the room.

"And now you're _both_ upset." I sigh, picking up Adora, whose tears cease instantly. "I suppose it's time for your nap."

Erik and I—well, Erik mostly, I was really no help at all—furnished and fixed up the smallest room for Adora. I had chosen a lavender color for the theme of her room, and it was sweet and soothing to enter. It held her crib, a small, white rocking chair, and a little chest of drawers.

As I tuck her into her crib, her eyes drooping, I feel Erik come up behind me.

"Are you angry with me?" he whispers.

"Of course not." I whisper back, leading him out, anticipating a long conversation.

"Good." he says, and walks away.

"Wait one second!" I call after him, closing Adora's door and catching his arm. He looks pointedly down at me. "There was no need for you to get all upset."

"I was not upset." he proclaims, wrestling out my grip, his eyes glowing. He thinks for a minute, and then looks down. "I did make her cry." he admits.

"It wasn't _you_, Erik. She's a child. She just cries."

"It _was_ me!" he protests, and he gives me a look as though I have just uttered the most unforgivable blasphemy.

"Nonsense." I say patiently. "Yesterday, when we were in the kitchen, a plate spilled and got food on her lap, and she cried because it scared her. But you cannot be offended every time she cries. She forgives us for everything."

Only my first sentence seems to register with him. "_You dropped a plate on her_?"

"I was sorry! You think I did not feel bad?"

"Yes, yes," he says distractedly. "She was fine, of course." Humming impatiently, he follows me. "You never seem concerned when she cries."

I sigh. "Erik, what can I say? She's an infant. _She cries_. It's her way of getting attention. If we are to be good parents, we must not bow down to her every need. And will you please take that terrible mask off?"

He acquiesces, and eyes me shrewdly. "You used to cry at the Opera. When people were cruel to you at rehearsals, or when the ballet mistresses yelled at you. You cried when you were in my house and you were locked in your room underground."

I turn to face him, and he looks expectant of my answer. "Yes, I suppose I wanted attention." I confess. "I wanted someone to pay attention to me, someone to make me feel better."

"_I _always came when you were crying."

I smile a little, reminiscing on some very strange memories. Yes, the Voice always seemed to come when I was most upset about something that had happened that day. The Voice was the only one who cared for me then… He cares for me now, too.

"I never let anyone get away with hurting you." he says very seriously. I flinch a little, looking at his face. _I never let anyone get away…_ There always were a few too many disappearances around the Opera that had to do with me. I decide to ignore our shaky past.

"Everybody needs attention."

"I do not." he retorts, and then stares at me as though he is begging me to contradict him.

I cross my arms at him. "Erik, of you want me to be honest, I have never met anyone who needs _more_ attention." His face falls a little, as though I am insulting him. "And I wouldn't have you any other way. I must have somebody to hoist all of my useless attention on, right?"

"Right." he agrees warmly. "I do lots of things to get attention."

A particular incident that I used to think about comes to my mind, and I smile slyly at him. "Like when you came into my room to ask if I was _tired_?"

He looks unashamed. "I knew you were not tired. I just wanted to come into your room."

Internally, I laugh at his boldness. I was glad he had come to me that night, for I think I would never have been brave enough to go to him, seeking love. And the fact that _he_ was brave enough to come showed that we were—well, that we were ready to be proper husband and wife.

But that was when I could barely see what would happen tomorrow. Now I see my husband and my daughter, and I wonder what our future will be like.

Gabriel comes over every now and then, if Karl and Marianne wish to go out, and I will watch both of the children. Marianne keeps encouraging me that I may bring Adora over anytime at all if I needed a break, but I can never bring myself to do it. What would happen if Marianne was distracted with Gabriel and Adora was hurt? Or if something happened to me and I couldn't get to Adora and she would be trapped there? Or worse, if she had a fit of epilepsy, which I have still not told Marianne about? So clearly, it is simply better to keep Adora around me.

In the back of my heart, I know I will have to let her grow up a little. But I was kept in childhood for so long, it seems that I am going to be doing the same with my daughter, and I must watch her carefully so that when the time comes for her to accept responsibilities and make her own decisions like a proper woman, she will be ready. And Erik will never let her grow up, I'm starting to fear. He was perfectly content to let me be his child while he was playing my protector, and now that Adora really _is_ his child, when will he ever need her to grow up for him.

The physician makes a visit one day simply to check up on Adora and see if she is doing well. He counts the dates of all the seizures I tell him, and how they are getting further and further apart, and he says that is good.

"She's a pretty child." he compliments, while peering in to check her eyes. She looks back at him, sitting very still and quiet on the pillow. "She will be a soft-spoken one, that is for sure. And so well behaved!"

Adora waves to him when he leaves, and turns to look at me for my approval.

"You were a good girl." I assure her. "But you didn't say anything!"

Erik comes out from wherever he's been hiding. "She didn't need to."

I set her down. "Should I have mentioned something to the physician?" I ask worriedly. "She's fifteen months, Erik, and she still hasn't really said any words."

"She babbles."

"Yes, that's just it. She babbles. And that's all."

Adora watches us with smug eyes, as though she knows perfectly well we're talking about her, and that she has nothing to say about it.

"Well, I think she's adorable." he murmurs. "Words are silly, anyhow. They're just words. She communicates fine."

She bounces on my lap and reaches her hands out to Erik, squeezing her fingers open and closed. Erik looks genuinely shocked.

"Why don't you sing her to sleep again?" I suggest. "She always falls asleep much faster when you do it."

"I am good for something, eh?" he sighs. "If you put her in her crib, I will."

I narrow my eyes are him and give him the most foreboding look I can muster. It doesn't seem to work, but he sighs again, and steps forward with his arms out. "If I drop her, would you be very mad at me?" he whispers.

"Oh, be reasonable." I scold him. "You've carried much heavier things, and you never seemed to worry about dropping them. Me, for instance. You could probably carry her with one hand—but don't do that, please. Here."

I lift her up and he takes her gingerly. I watch them like a hawk as Erik quietly disappears into her room. Of course I trust Erik with her!—but I must make sure, just in case.

Without Adora, I stretch against the couch and lean back. It is not that late yet, but it is still growing dark, and I hardly have anything to stay awake for. Adora will be up around dawn tomorrow, so it might be good to get a bit more sleep that I usually do…

"Christine?"

I open my eyes, and Erik is standing by the sofa, watching me warily.

"Yes?"

"Could—could you come and sing this for me?" he asks. "But if you're tired, then of course go up to bed, my dear," he adds hastily. "We can do it tomorrow, as well."

"Is Adora already asleep?" I ask in disbelief.

He nods. "She likes the same lullaby you like." He smiles. "It always worked that fast on you as well."

I sit up, and all sleep is instantly cleared from my mind. If Erik is asking for attention, then I desire nothing more than to give it to him. And the last time I sung was… was… quite a while ago. Already, I am glowing with the thought of being able to sing with my composer again.

I take his hand, and we both smile. "Let us go sing."

--


	50. Epilogue

--

**A/N: I want to thank everyone who has come across this story and enjoyed it. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Special thanks to all who took the time to review or to send me an email personally to chit-chat about it—you know who you are, and I feel blessed to have such beautiful readers. Also to all you anonymous people out there, who don't have time to review or don't have an account—I know you're out there, and I appreciate you just as much. Thanks for bearing with this story all the way to the end.**

**Special thanks to BleedingHeartConservative, EpluCequealsLUV, debkay, Sarah Crawford, Darcimkire, Broken-Vow, MaskedOperaGhost, HDKIngsbury, gravity01, and a ton of other people who inspired me, helped me, and made this story worth writing.**

**I probably won't take a break from writing, so you can still check out my new story, Fleur Du Mal, which is on my profile. I will also try to go through this story and correct some grammar and spelling mistakes that I've found, thanks to all of you. It's been a long journey; I'm both sad and elated to see it through.**

**Any last thoughts, ideas, opinions?**

**I hope you enjoyed it. I love you all so very, very much!**

**THANK YOU!**

**---**

_Six Years Later_

"Adora, if you don't stop eating those, we'll have none left!"

Adora stares coyly at me, and sneaks a few more in her mouth, which is already stained blue with the blueberries. When I give her a stern look, she only blinks and says, "But Mama, we have _hundreds_!"

Admittedly, we do have another crate full, but if she continues eating like this, she'll be ill for sure. To distract her, I say, "Why don't you go find Papa and tell him we'll be ready to go in a few minutes?"

She furrows her brow, as if thinking. "I don't hear any music." She gives me a simpering look. "Papa doesn't want to come out. He said not to bother him until we were ready to leave."

She is speaking the truth, but I conclude that if there is anyone who can draw him out of his music room, it would be Adora, not me. "Please?"

She thinks again for a minutes, and then nods quickly.

"Go find him, now," I encourage, and she hops off her stool and navigates around the many crates and parcels that have filled our living room.

Interestingly enough, it had been unanimous in our little family that it was time to move back to France. I can't really remember who suggested it first, but Erik and I agreed that it would be a fine decision. Adora, who had heard many stories of things that had happened in Paris, was absolutely thrilled. She knew Mama had been an opera singer at the famous Paris Opera House, and she wanted to see it, too.

Adora is not quite as into music as I would expect Erik's child to be, but she an unusually fond attachment to it all the same. Erik tries to coax her to play the piano, but she prefers to take books and read them while Erik plays the piano to her.

But we really are going to France, and we are looking forward to it.

"We shall miss you!" Marianne says when I first tell her. "Now it will be your turn to write me and tell me of everything you see!"

"I'm sure it hasn't changed much from when we were there." I laugh.

I asked Adora if she would miss Gabriel. The two are good friends, although they're not quite as close as Marianne and I once fantasized. They see each other once a week when Mari comes over, or maybe a bit more if he comes over to play.

"A little." Adora had admitted. She looked up at me with her dark, shining eyes. "Will you and Papa be coming?"

"Why, yes." I replied, smiling. "Papa and I are taking you with us."

She gave me one of her smiles, and went off to go play.

I will miss Marianne and Karl, as well as Gabriel and their baby Hanna, but it will not be so hard as when they left, when I depended on Mari for my only companionship. Now I have my own family, and do not need to depend on anyone else's.

Our situation is interesting, however, as Erik pointed out—Adora will be a young girl moving from Sweden to France, leaving behind her blonde-headed friend.

"Don't forget her father is a violinist." I add cheerfully. Erik frowns, his face upturned.

"Gabriel will have nothing to do with her." he says. "And what is the chance that the boy will ever go to France. Although if he did, that would be very ironic."

"If it's meant to be, they'll be together." I say, a little too firmly to be only speaking of Adora and Gabriel.

"Yes," Erik agrees, someone reluctantly. "As long as there is not _someone else already after her!_"

I finish packing a loaf of bread into the basket, and I hear the plink of small fingers pressing against the keys of the piano in the other room. A minute later, Erik comes out carrying Adora in his arms; she looks at me smugly.

"Your hands are blue." he complains, and takes her in the direction of the washroom.

"Bravo, Adora." I murmur, and continue putting food in the basket. They return only a moment later, Erik setting her down on her stool. Her expression clearly says that she expects to be compensated for her feat, so I push the bowl of blueberries toward her.

"I don't want anything." Erik says at once, looking around at all the food I have.

"Of course not." I say automatically, but I keep everything in, just in case.

For all of Erik's odd, little traits, Adora has always had a better appetite than him. She is still very tiny for her age, with a familiar thin frame, and she hardly weighs more than forty pounds. She still resembles me in her face, her hands, the wave of her hair… but I still think it's easy to see who her father is.

Erik and I wondered how young she would be before she started noticing there was something different about Erik's face… It was a topic that disturbed Erik greatly, and one that I characteristically ignored. But she has never uttered word to Erik about it, nothing at all. The only reference at all was asked to me, one night while I tucked her in bed.

"Mama," she had asked quietly, while I patted her pillow. "Why does Papa not have a nose?"

I had to gather myself for a minute and make sure that Erik was not at the door—and then I answered, "God made everyone very different so he could tell us all apart and love us in different ways. You are special in a different way, because you are loved very much, no matter what's different about you. In fact, anything that _makes_—"

"Won't you sing to me?" Adora interrupted, bored with my scrambled explanation.

Her attitude only made me see that it really doesn't matter to her; she just wants it to be known.

Gabriel wondered _incessantly_ about Erik's mask, until one time, Marianne had actually hit him around the head with impatience. Erik mostly stayed away, but when he was around, Gabriel's eyes followed him everywhere.

"Does he have a face?" "Has anyone ever seen him without a mask on?" "Why doesn't Miss Christine wear a mask?" "He _does_ have a face, right?"

I chuckle to myself, and both Erik and Adora look up at me, their faces identical to the expression of, _Is she losing her mind_?

"I was just thinking." I say hastily, fastening the clip on the bag and taking it into my arms. "Are we all ready to go?"

"Yes!" Adora proclaims, and she stretches out on her chair to reach towards Erik.

"You _must_ let her walk!" I order, half-jokingly, half-stern, but he scoops her up anyway and smiles patiently at me.

"She looks like you when she pouts." he says simply, as if that cleared the matter.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if Adora used her own two feet for more than five minutes. It's our fault, and now we're dealing with it the best we can—but she is utterly, ridiculously, and irrevocably spoiled and yet she remains the sweetest, quietest girl we could ever hope for, so eventually the matter has come to an impasse. She prefers to be carried, rather than walk herself… and how is it a problem when she has two parent's who wait on her hand and foot?

Besides, if Erik minded her wouldn't do it. And he does.

"Put her shoes on anyway," I tell him, determined that this day will at least go my way for the most part. I have been planning this for a long time… It is been in the back of my mind for a year at least.

Erik obviously senses this matters much to me, and he goes off to get Adora ready.

At nearly eleven, we all leave the house, walking straight across the top of the hill, rather than down to town.

"Are we going to all of your favorite places before we go to Paris?" Adora asks curiously.

"You know where we're going, silly." I laugh. "We've been here several times."

"Your hill." Erik reminds her quietly, and her face brightens.

She finally gets down from Erik after we've been walking for a while so she can run through the tall grass. She gets caught in a few weeds and laughs delightedly, spinning and twirling and running some more. Erik and I wander easily behind her, our hands linked, our eyes watching closely.

We can never be watching _too_ closely… That one evening had been her first seizure for a very long time… It was the day after her fourth birthday, and perhaps she'd been too rambunctious, too wild… She was shaking for minutes… The longest few minutes of my life. Erik and I both had stayed up that entire night, watching her sleep peacefully in her bed, until I eventually fell asleep on Erik's shoulder around dawn.

So perhaps it is not so bad that she is spoiled, and that we are protective. I don't mind taking care of her for all of my days, and Erik has double the fun spoiling both of his girls.

We finally settle down in the middle of the large meadow right on the slope of the hill, and Adora eagerly takes the basket and sits on the blanket. "What did you bring me?" she asks, tottering up and down on her knees.

Erik winds up some long-stemmed flowers that he's pulled from the winding path, and winds them through her light brown curls. "Whatever you would like." he answers, and she claps her hands.

"Mama, you shouldn't be eating that!" Adora scolds me as I pull out my frosted biscuit. "It coats your throat and ruins your voice!"

Erik laughs while I raise my eyebrows at her. "I am not planning on doing any singing with Papa today, am I? Who told you that?"

"You must take very good care of your voice." she says seriously, her eyes and manner so much like Erik's that for a moment I feel light-headed. "It is your special gift."

Erik looks very deliberately away from me, and begins making a grass chain.

"Well, it's obvious you pay very close attention." I mutter. "I assure you it won't ruin my voice. I will still have plenty left to sing for you tonight."

She tilts her head uncannily like Erik's, and then nods slowly.

My idea is still in my head… but I don't bring it up, not yet.

She falls asleep after she eats, and Erik and I talk softly as to not wake her up.

"Do you think she will like Paris?" he asks.

I think for a moment. "She'll love it." I say confidently. "She's very adaptable. As long as we're with her, she'll be fine." I hesitate. "Will _you_ be alright in Paris?"

He looks at me a little coldly. "You think I won't be?"

"I just want to make sure, before we go." I reply, and his face softens.

"Wherever you go, I am happy." he says.

I smile.

She wakes up after noon, her hair still tousled from her position on the ground, and crawls instantly into my lap. Erik offers her more flowers; tempted, she glances wistfully at me, and then crawls to him.

I don't deny her. Erik is far more tempting than I am.

The breeze is very nice up here. I make believe that I can smell the sea, only a few miles away. Strangely enough, we have hardly been to the sea since we've been her, only three times since Adora was born. It was salty smelling, and very cold. Erik preferred to stay in the distance with Adora, who was afraid of the water, while I strolled in the waves, the bottom of my petticoats getting wet. I could see the way it attracted me once, but something about it was missing, which made it desperately lonely and more beautiful. It was such a mysterious element, the sea… always moving and growing, while essentially being the same being over and over through the years.

That was the last time we'd gone to the shore. I wasn't too sorry to say goodbye to it. Something about Erik is far more calming and peaceful.

"_I could be happy if I tried." _

"_But… you do not… try?"_

If Erik and I had loved each other like this right away, something would be missing. Our pain, our struggles, only made us bond deeper, until I want to explode with love and devotion to him.

"_I don't know how to be happy like this. How can I be happy with you when you are distant with me? When I try to care for you, you—you brush me away. I'm close to giving up."_

"_I want you to be happy."_

"_I want you to be happy too."_

I hadn't known how to make him happy. How could I have made him happy when I was feeling so miserable at the time?

"_Love me, Christine! Love me and I will be happy!"_

The time, I believe, is right. I select my words with as much care as I can, just like the one afternoon where Erik and I sat at our table, and I realized how to love.

"This hill is very special to me," I begin, speaking both to my husband and my daughter. "Do you know why?"

Adora shakes her head, while Erik watches me with solemn eyes.

"When I was a little girl, my Papa used to take me here." I say, speaking directly to Adora now. "Sometimes he would bring his violin, sometimes he would bring one of his books—but we always talked. I was very young, like you, and some times are very difficult for me to remember. I hope when you are all grown-up, you will remember this hill. You will, right?"

Adora smiles, and pats the ground. "I like it here." she declares. "Did you like it, too, when you were as little as me?"

"I did." Adora opens her mouth to say something more, but Erik says, "Hush." He is watching me very intently.

"Papa told me many stories," I say dreamily, and for a moment I am looking out into the distance, and I am the little blonde girl in my dear Papa's lap, both of us speaking and giggling like the children we both were. I blink, and it is Erik and Adora, both of them watching me. "One of my favorite was the story of the Angel of Music."

Adora squeals; she has heard it from me once or twice.

"I liked it very much when he told it to me." I explain. "I remembered it forever, even when I was all grown up." I am speaking to Erik now, and his eyes are wet. I cannot look away. "Will you tell it to Adora?"

He blinks. "Me?" he whispers.

I smile, and my eyes are full of tears, too—Erik and I are so insufferably dramatic!—and I nod.

"You know it better than I do." he murmurs, but Adora turns and watches him expectantly.

"Will you tell it to me, Papa? I want to hear about the Angel of Music. What is he like?"

"He comes to some people," Erik says quietly. "When they are very good and seek musical talent. One little girl had the Angel of Music come to her."

"What was her name?" Adora breathes, quivering with excitement.

"Her name was Little Lotte." Erik recites, his voice becoming hypotonic, every fiber of his being placed into this tale, until I feel that the whole world is wrapped into the timbre of his voice, and that nothing matter but the story that is being told. "Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing…"

My mind drifts away into another world. What was life, in the end? Did it matter what you achieved, or how you achieved it, if it meant nothing to you? What I couldn't have possibly known was that I _did_ receive the Angel of Music, sent by my Papa… He was just a little different than what I'd expected.

But the one thing I can be certain to have given my child is the Angel of Music… How lucky she is. How lucky we both are!

I have been through much in my life. My childhood was sheltered and unstable, and broken by the tragedy of my father's death. I was a lonely girl, with my only friend being dear Raoul, who I barely saw. At the Opera, I was discouraged and unhappy with myself for not living up to my Papa's expectations. And at the core of it all, the one promise I had clung to all of my life was not being fulfilled.

I have been through more than that. I have been through a spurned lover, a boy whom I used as a souvenir to the promise I wanted, and ultimately a man who I turned away. I do not regret leaving Raoul the way I did, but I do wander where he is and what he is doing occasionally. From the bottom of my heart, I do hope he is just as happy as I am, although I fear that is impossible.

I have been in the precarious situation of an intimidating suitor, a forced marriage, and an ultimate act of love. I have gone through trials and tribulations, nights where I cried myself to sleep with sorrow, days when I wanted to rip my hair out at Erik's demeanor. I have gone through the trembling sensations of a first kiss, a first caress, and a first expression of physical love with someone who was just as inexperienced as I was. I have been in-between two men who swore they loved me… But I had to choose the one that I loved.

Choices, choices. Where would I be now if I hadn't made my choices?

I have moved away from the place where I had grown, the place where my dream finally came true. I have suffered the impossible arguments with Erik, and the little bickering that built a wall between us.

I have lost my baby… Something I can never overcome, never forget. But it is something I have forgiven myself for. My little Erik… He will never know the impact he had on my life, or how deeply he touched me for those few months. But he would have forgiven me, I am sure of it. He was not meant for this life, but for one up with the Almighty Lord. I love him, and I love my Adora.

My Adora… my adored one will never leave my mind. She belongs to me just as surely as she belongs to Erik. To us. How could my love for two people reach such an extent? I see myself in her, I see Erik in her. She is my joy, my comfort, my reason for breathing.

How can I dwell on all my misfortunate's when I look into her sweet face? How can I doubt any of my actions when Erik is always over my shoulder, reminding me of how much he loves me every day?

I look forward to Paris. As long as I am with my family, I am happy. _Wherever you go, Erik, I am happy._

"One night, the Angel of Music came to her, because Lotte was such a good girl…"

Perhaps I did something good after all. I want to sing with Erik tonight. Will Adora grow upset if I eat my frosted biscuit? I smile to myself, but Adora is too caught up in her father's story to notice.

I am not an orphan, and I am not a child. I am a mother who loves her own child with more love than the sea can contain. And I love Adora with more heart than I ever could have dreamed I possessed at the Opera. And I love Erik. I embrace his faults, I worship his strengths, and I need in him in every move I dare to take. I belong to him, just as much as I did the very first time I heard him through my mirror… _"Do not be frightened, child. I will take care of you."_

I am more than the orphan trembling in her dressing room, in awe at the wondrous voice she was hearing. I am with the Angel of Music, for now and forever.

And I am his living wife.

--


End file.
